They were absurdly expensive, for candles, but Janine bought them anyway; their fragrance wove its way into the alcoves of her memory and unwound all her self-control from within. She was out for a day's shopping, that was all, she was at Penhaligon's, and she was unprepared.
Frankincense and myrrh were names like incantation, but it was the scent of them that sang to her blood and bones.
She keeps them in a back closet, where they won't tempt her. But every Christmas Eve, she lights them again, leans in to let the warmth stroke her cheeks, and breathes deeply.