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Nine fragrances distilled from history's most dangerous flowers, each a testament to the luminous confidence of those who have glimpsed the edge and returned, transformed. This is not darkness. This is what glows on the other side.
Poppy Soma won The Fragrance Foundation’s Perfume Extraordinaire award in a blind-judged context, placing #1 out of more than 400 entries.
Poppy Soma interprets the poppy as a moon-threshold: a narcotic bloom associated with erotic current, altered consciousness, sacred union, and afterglow.
Les Potions Fatales is the house’s poison-garden chapter: threshold fragrances for seduction, ritual, and the embrace of your nocturnal self.
Les Potions Fatales is the house’s poison-garden chapter: threshold fragrances for seduction, ritual, and the embrace of your nocturnal self.
For millennia, poisonous flowers have guarded the threshold between worlds. Healers revered them. Rulers feared them. Their secret? A beauty so potent it demands transformation.
Wear these, and feel something shift. Not just allure — authority. The quiet magnetism of those who have glimpsed the edge and returned, carrying what they saw. These fragrances don't adorn; they initiate. Less doubt. More gravity. The radiance of someone who knows.
This is perfumery as rite of passage. Forbidden botanicals. Unshakeable presence. Worn as proof of becoming.
For millennia, poisonous flowers have guarded the threshold between worlds. Healers revered them. Rulers feared them. Their secret? A beauty so potent it demands transformation.
Wear these, and feel something shift. Not just allure — authority. The quiet magnetism of those who have glimpsed the edge and returned, carrying what they saw. These fragrances don't adorn; they initiate. Less doubt. More gravity. The radiance of someone who knows.
This is perfumery as rite of passage. Forbidden botanicals. Unshakeable presence. Worn as proof of becoming.
A FERAL GREEN FRAGRANCE OF ABSINTHE, BLACK GINGER, CASTOREUM MUSK, TRUFFLED EARTH, AND BEAST-KIN INITIATION.
They say it grew from the saliva of the beast that guards the door between worlds. Angelica and black ginger bare their teeth. Fig leaf trembles. Absinthe opens the green corridor, and castoreum stalks through tobacco flower and tuberose — feral, velvet, unapologetic. The base is truffle and vetiver: earth that has swallowed secrets and grown richer for it. The beast recognizes you now. You are no longer prey. You are kin.
A BLACK-VINYL FRAGRANCE OF PINK PEPPER, MARTINIQUE RUM, SPICED WHITE FLORALS, AND VELVET SURRENDER.
Philosophers have always known: silence is a kind of answer. Pink pepper cracks open bergamot; rum sweetens the waiting. Then the turn — black vinyl, slick and modern, wrapped in cinnamon, jasmine sambac, and sea salt. Something here is not what it seems. Something here is more beautiful for it. The base forgives everything: benzoin, vanilla, sandalwood closing like a final breath held in velvet. What comes after is not ending. It is rest.
A FERAL GREEN FRAGRANCE OF ABSINTHE, BLACK GINGER, CASTOREUM MUSK, TRUFFLED EARTH, AND BEAST-KIN INITIATION.
They say it grew from the saliva of the beast that guards the door between worlds. Angelica and black ginger bare their teeth. Fig leaf trembles. Absinthe opens the green corridor, and castoreum stalks through tobacco flower and tuberose — feral, velvet, unapologetic. The base is truffle and vetiver: earth that has swallowed secrets and grown richer for it. The beast recognizes you now. You are no longer prey. You are kin.
A MOON-THRESHOLD FRAGRANCE OF NARCOTIC BLOOM, TEMPLE SMOKE, AND RED HEAT.
Poppy Soma extrait de parfum is one of the house's defining historical statements: white florals, spice, incense, and smoke rendered with unusual gravity and glow. It feels hypnotic, radiant, and slightly forbidden — the kind of perfume that never settles for prettiness when it can become a spell.
Created with perfumers Emilie Coppermann and David Apel, then honored with the Fragrance Foundation's Perfume Extraordinaire award after blind judging, Poppy Soma remains one of QUARTANA's clearest proofs that concept and beauty can meet at the highest level.
A BLACK-VINYL FRAGRANCE OF PINK PEPPER, MARTINIQUE RUM, SPICED WHITE FLORALS, AND VANILLIC SURRENDER.
Philosophers have always known: silence is a kind of answer. Pink pepper cracks open bergamot; rum sweetens the waiting. Then the turn — black vinyl, slick and modern, wrapped in cinnamon, jasmine sambac, and sea salt. Something here is not what it seems. Something here is more beautiful for it. The base forgives everything: benzoin, vanilla, sandalwood closing like a final breath. What comes after is not ending. It is rest.
A NOCTURNAL WHITE-FLORAL FRAGRANCE OF DEVIL’S TRUMPET, MARTINIQUE RUM, FEVERED BLOOM, AND SOFT AMBER RETURN.
The devil's trumpet opens only after the world has closed its eyes. First, bergamot bright as a struck match — then green leaves unfurling into tuberose, magnolia, jasmine, a white floral séance drunk on Martinique rum. Davana ripens past reason. The datura accord hums at frequencies only the body understands. Vanilla and amber receive what returns. You will not remember leaving. Only the soft amber landing of coming home.
A NOCTURNAL WHITE-FLORAL FRAGRANCE OF DEVIL’S TRUMPET, MARTINIQUE RUM, FEVERED BLOOM, AND SOFT AMBER RETURN.
The fae stitched these gloves for hands that no longer tremble. Silver iris, cold as creek water. Galbanum splitting open green air. Somewhere beneath, violets drenched in waterfall mist and the bitter kiss of gentiane. It smells like the meadow where you almost disappeared — and the inhale that brought you back. Fern and wet moss hold the secret in place. Incense seals it. You are not haunted. You are the one who returned.
A COLD GREEN FRAGRANCE OF SILVER IRIS, DROWNED VIOLETS, WATERFALL MIST, AND MOSS-COVERED RETURN.
The fae stitched these gloves for hands that no longer tremble. Silver iris, cold as creek water. Galbanum splitting open green air. Somewhere beneath, violets drenched in waterfall mist and the bitter kiss of gentiane. It smells like the meadow where you almost disappeared — and the inhale that brought you back. Fern and wet moss hold the secret in place. Incense seals it. You are not haunted. You are the one who returned.
A RITUAL ROSE FRAGRANCE OF LICORICE, ANISE, METALLIC DEVOTION, AND AMBERED OFFERING.
There is a rose that blooms only where something sacred has been offered. Licorice sharpens the air; anise parts the veil. Then — iron and velvet, the blood accord pulsing beneath Bulgarian rose like a second heartbeat. Clove drives deep. Orris roots where memory pools. And beneath it all, amber and patchouli: ancient, unhurried, waiting for you to understand. This is not a wound. This is a threshold.
A CANDLELIT DARK-FLORAL FRAGRANCE OF VIOLET WATER, HONEYED JASMINE, SUEDE, AND VENETIAN SORCERY.
She learned the secret in a palazzo lit by dying candles: beauty is a door, and some doors only open in the dark. Blackcurrant bleeds into violet water. Cognac warms the jasmine until it confesses. Honey and iris pool like candlelight on suede — soft, treacherous, impossibly still. The tuberose knows what the mirror saw. The saffron remembers. Wear this, and your eyes will hold something no one can name.
A CANDLELIT DARK-FLORAL FRAGRANCE OF VIOLET WATER, HONEYED JASMINE, SUEDE, AND VENETIAN SORCERY.
She learned the secret in a palazzo lit by dying candles: beauty is a door, and some doors only open in the dark. Blackcurrant bleeds into violet water. Cognac warms the jasmine until it confesses. Honey and iris pool like candlelight on suede — soft, treacherous, impossibly still. The tuberose knows what the mirror saw. The saffron remembers. Wear this, and your eyes will hold something no one can name.
A FORBIDDEN ORCHARD FRAGRANCE OF TART APPLE, POMEGRANATE, BIRCH ROOT, SUEDED LEATHER, AND REBIRTH.
Apple and pomegranate split against birch root — something tart, alive, almost too awake. Cardamom sparks. Rhubarb sharpens. The mandrake flower accord rises like a hymn sung underground, and sueded leather wraps it in silence. The base is Madagascar vanilla and tonka, soft as the space between screaming and understanding. You did not die. You were only being born.
A DEWY WHITE-FLORAL FRAGRANCE OF HOLY TEARS, BLACK LEATHER GLOVES, VETIVER SHADOW, AND RADIANT KNOWING.
They say these bells sprang from holy tears. They do not say what she was weeping for. Bergamot and neroli tremble into cassis dew. Orange blossom, rose absolute, jasmine — a bridal chorus almost too pure to trust. Then the hand: black leather gloves closing around the bouquet, labdanum and vetiver bourbon pulling the white light into shadow. But look closer. The shadow is not dark. It glows. Innocence was never the point. Knowing was.
A DEWY WHITE-FLORAL FRAGRANCE OF HOLY TEARS, BLACK LEATHER GLOVES, VETIVER SHADOW, AND RADIANT KNOWING.
They say these bells sprang from holy tears. They do not say what she was weeping for. Bergamot and neroli tremble into cassis dew. Orange blossom, rose absolute, jasmine — a bridal chorus almost too pure to trust. Then the hand: black leather gloves closing around the bouquet, labdanum and vetiver bourbon pulling the white light into shadow. But look closer. The shadow is not dark. It glows. Innocence was never the point. Knowing was.
Les Potions Fatales is the house’s poison-garden chapter: threshold fragrances for seduction, ritual, and the embrace of your nocturnal self.
Les Potions Fatales is the house’s poison-garden chapter: threshold fragrances for seduction, ritual, and the embrace of your nocturnal self.
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