Each fragrance begins as a story and ends as an epigraph — the one line that lets you guess the rest.
“A sacred veil stolen by love.”
[ SARI SEMILIR ]
Parfum
A celestial breeze inspired by the romantic Balinese legend of Ken Sulasih — a subtle spirit of wind and bloom, who carries the secret of desire in her scent.
10 ml · 30 ml · 50 ml
Available
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The first breath
🍊 Jeruk bali, Balinese pomelo — juicy and radiant — meets the green sharpness of kaffir lime and sun-kissed mango.
Then, the heart blooms
🌺 Frangipani and ylang-ylang, drizzled with the golden sweetness of nira kelapa, the nectar of the coconut blossom.
It all melts into a warm, lingering base
🔥 Vanilla, sandalwood, and sacred oud.
10 ml · 30 ml · 50 ml · Available
“She wears the night as her own.”
[ HECATE ]
Parfum
A nocturnal spice inspired by the Greek myth of Hecate — goddess of the crossroads, who walks between worlds with her torches raised and the night trailing at her heels.
10 ml · 30 ml · 50 ml
Available
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The first breath
🌿 Cardamom, cold and green — the shiver of night air where three roads meet.
Then, the heart opens
🥀 A dark rose, full and nocturnal, blooming for no one but the moon.
It all sinks into
🪵 Oud — deep, resinous shadow: the night she wears as her own.
10 ml · 30 ml · 50 ml · Available
“Faith comes from God. Will, from the devil.”
[ THEODOROS ]
Parfum
A gilded ambition inspired by a modern novel — a poor boy, the sea he swears to cross, the faith that carries him and the devil that collects.
IN THE MAKING
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The first breath — the flowering homeland
🍊 Orange, the clove of warm vin fiert and fresh mint — the Wallachia he leaves behind.
Then, the heart takes to the sea
🌊 Salt and Aegean wind over the mastic gardens of Chios; deeper in, rose and spikenard over seven kinds of pepper, with a thread of hookah smoke.
It all falls at Magdala
🔥 Ethiopian church incense — frankincense and myrrh — over dark tej honey and the woods of Solomon's temple: cedar of Lebanon and sandalwood. Beneath, ambergris and the gunpowder smoke of the burning fortress.
“One war. Two bottles. Opposite shores.”
A palawa story from Tasmania · Two perfumes
“He lost the sky, and made a world of it.”
[ MOINEE ]
Parfum
The creation spirit who came down from the war in the stars and shaped the island — its rivers, its coasts, its first people.
IN THE MAKING
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The first breath
🌞 Boronia and Tasmanian pepperberry — the island's own gold and spice, warmed by the sun he was born from.
Then, the heart smoulders
🪔 Frankincense over embers — fire carried down from the war.
It all settles into
🪨 Vetiver, patchouli and sun-baked earth — the world he shaped.
“He kept the sky, and watches still.”
[ DROMERDEENER ]
Parfum
The brother who kept the sky — and came down once, to finish what his brother began.
IN THE MAKING
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The first breath
🌙 Highland pine and mountain mist — the cold air of the southern night.
Then, the heart stands guard
🪔 The same frankincense his brother burns — here unlit, over moonlit stone.
It all rests on
🌫 Cedar and pale musk, cool as moonlight — the sky keeping watch.
“Sons of God. A story still falling.”
A biblical legend
“The sky never asked for them back.”
[ NEPHILIM ]
Parfum
The sons of God who came down and stayed. Too tall for heaven, too heavy for the sky to want them back. The story is being read.
STORY UNDER INVESTIGATION
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Something cold opens it…
A sky closing. Grey light. The cold of altitude.
Something remembered in the heart…
Wings on skin. The dry weight of what was left behind.
And at the end, something heavy…
Earth. Musk. Giants learning to walk.
[]
The next story is still being distilled.
The library
Every bottle begins on a shelf like this
Myths, legends, the characters of novels — read until one story refuses to be left behind.
Seven bidadari — the celestial maidens of Balinese legend — came down to bathe in a forest pool, and a hunter stole the flying veil of one: Ken Sulasih, who without it could not return to the sky. Her legend smells of the island that kept her: bright jeruk bali and kaffir lime at the water's edge, frangipani and ylang-ylang from the offerings, the golden nectar of the coconut blossom — and, from the temple she never stopped hearing, sandalwood and sacred oud.
At every crossroads, the Greeks left suppers for the goddess who walks between worlds, torches lit against her dark. Meet her at midnight and the cold air carries cardamom; in her garden grows a rose that opens only for the moon; and the night itself, as you come closer, deepens into oud — resinous, warm, impossible to refuse. That is her seduction: she never calls anyone. Everyone comes.
A servant boy from the Wallachian plains swears he will die an emperor — and half the world later, in Ethiopia, under an African crown, he almost does. His road smells of the orange and warm vin fiert of his flowering homeland; of salt and Aegean wind over the mastic gardens of Chios — rose, spikenard, seven kinds of pepper, a thread of hookah smoke; and, when the crown finally comes, of Ethiopian church incense over tej honey, the temple woods of cedar and sandalwood, ambergris — and the gunpowder smoke of Magdala, where the devil collects his half of the bargain.
In the palawa tradition of Tasmania — as the elder Wooreddy told it in the 1830s — two creation spirits, brothers born of the Sun and the Moon, fought across the southern sky, and Moinee came down to the island at the end of the world. It was he who gave it shape: he cut the rivers into its ground, broke its coast into islands, and formed the first people from a spirit dwelling in its soil. His half of the story smells of the island's own gold and spice — boronia and native pepperberry — of frankincense smouldering over embers, and of sun-baked earth. His brother's bottle tells the other half.
Dromerdeener is the brother who kept the sky — set, the story says, between his brother and their parents, the Sun and the Moon, watching still. When the first people were left unfinished, he came down to complete them — so they could rest — and then returned to his watch. His half smells of the cold air of the southern night: highland pine and mountain mist, the same frankincense his brother burns — here unlit, over moonlit stone — and beneath, cedar and pale musk, cool as moonlight. One story, one war, two bottles.
The old verses say the sons of God came down upon a mountain of cedars, looked at the daughters of men, and stayed. Their children were giants — the Anakim, too tall for heaven, too heavy for it to want them back. This story is still being read. The bottle has not yet been sealed.
The shelves are endless. We read slowly.
The house
Infragantico is an artisanal perfumery house in Amsterdam where every fragrance is a single story — a myth, a legend, a novel — distilled into scent. We compose by hand and slowly, in small batches: reading, researching, translating each story into natural raw materials, chosen for their quality and their unrepeatable aromatic character. Every bottle is weighed in grams and labelled one by one.
Because this house was born from a scent. A garden in La Mancha: saffron flowers, the smoke of burnt vine shoots, the petrichor of dry earth after a storm. Many years and thousands of kilometres later, a fine summer rain in Amsterdam lifted that same scent from foreign soil — and the garden, suddenly, was here. Smell is how memory travels: this house bottles it. We don't make perfumes to please everyone. We make perfumes that give you away.
For centuries, Spanish has confused flagrante — what burns — with fragante — what smells. Infragantico lives in that confusion on purpose: in fraganti means caught in the act, and it sounds like caught in fragrance.
Because that is what a perfume is: flagrant. It gives you away before you speak. It catches you in the act of remembering, of reliving, of discovering a story you didn't know was etched within you.
A goddess at the crossroads, a sky from which a hero fell, a legend carried across oceans. We don't merely tell these stories; we invite you to wear them, to become part of their unfolding narrative.
Contact
Be caught first
Write to us to hear when the next story is bottled — or to ask about the ones already told.
