La Befana Eau De Parfum

Feared and mocked and beloved like every other woman, La Befana adjusts the woolen scarf tied too tight under her chin, a thing mottled red and shaped like the point of a cartoon heart. All of her garlic is gone. Only good children await her visits for the rest of the night, thank goodness. With each step she takes in the snow, inching closer to home and the heady incense of her fireplace, roses and blue tansies bloom in her wake only to crystallize the instant they hit the freezing air of the Italian country. She rustles her knapsack, feeling the weight of the candies she has yet to dole out—perhaps she can sneak a single treat for herself as a reward for the night's work. She lets the powdery drop of sugar dissolve slowly on her tongue.