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    Mrs. Merlin fluffed the sides of her caftan and patted at her iridescent hair. “Thank you ever so much. By the way, what’s your name, dear?”
    “Penelope Fields.”
    “Ah, Penelope. And what are we weaving today?”
    The weaving reference was one Penelope had heard time and time before, as people delighted in asking her whether she’d been named after the Penelope of Greek myth who’d spent years weaving garments while her husband Odysseus was off wandering.
    The truth was her mother had been determined from the day of her daughter’s birth to make her stand out from the crowd. She simply picked the name because it was uncommon. Realizing she hadn’t responded aloud to the woman, Penelope said, “Today I guess I’m weaving some adventure into my life.”
    Mrs. Merlin smiled. “Chances are that doesn’t please you right now, but it might one day. I always like to say things happen for a reason, though I’m bedazzled as to what it was I did wrong this time.”
    “Wrong?”
    Mrs. Merlin worried her lips into a knot and tapped the side of her cheek with her forefinger. “I was working on a spell for Ramona. She’s a dear who lives down the street from me, but for all the days in the year the woman doesn’t possess a lick of sense. She’s gotten herself in trouble with the tax collector and I was only trying to help.”
    Penelope nodded, but she wondered how Mrs. Merlin could help.
    Almost in answer the tiny woman waved a hand airily. “I burn candles,” she said, as if that answered every possible question Penelope might have about her.
    “Candles.”
    “Yes.” Mrs. Merlin stopped talking, but continued tapping the side of her cheek and began murmuring to herself.
    To Penelope’s relief, the cab swung onto her block in the Warehouse District. Not only had she shoplifted, fantasized way too much, and made a fool of herself in front of the man with the bedroom eyes, she’d been saddled with a tiny woman who was without a doubt certifiably nuts.
    How much simpler her life would be had she gone to the office as she normally did on Saturdays.
    The cab halted. Penelope pointed quickly to her purse and with a shake of her head Mrs. Merlin climbed inside. Penelope paid and headed inside the converted cotton warehouse that housed her apartment.
    She loved the rich woods and the feeling that time had been captured and rejuvenated with the loving restoration of the old building. Stepping inside always made her glad she’d taken the chance and moved to New Orleans.
    And now, stepping inside with Mrs. Merlin muttering under her breath inside her shoulder bag, Penelope smiled and realized she was glad she hadn’t gone to the office.
    “Sense of adventure, here I come,” she said, and punched the elevator call button.

Chapter 4
    “Not a bad place,” Mrs. Merlin said, peering around from her perch on Penelope’s glass and oak coffee table. “A little impersonal, though.”
    “It serves me nicely,” Penelope retorted, caught between annoyance and amusement at this woman who invaded her life, then criticized her decorating style. She’d taken over the apartment as is from an architect leaving in a hurry for an Italian assignment.
    “I always think it’s the personal touches that add that something certain,” Mrs. Merlin said. Then she grasped the stick she’d been dragging around and used it to vault from the table to the floor in one smooth move. There she straightened her caftan, patted her hair, and tucked the stick under one arm.
    “What is that thing and how does it work?” Penelope had meant to ask about the stick earlier, but the question had seemed a bit nosy.
    “It’s an incense stick,” Mrs. Merlin said, adjusting her glasses on her nose and fixing Penelope with a look that indicated she found her on the slow side. “It’s used to light the candle in the practice of magick, but now that you mention it, I’ve no idea how it’s made. Precious oils and wood pulp, I