Single Witch's Survival Guide by Mindy Klasky Page B

er, gift is making me act a little faster than I’d planned. The magicarium is going to take a lot of money to run.”
    Of course a magicarium would take money. We’d need real housing for one thing—for students, their warders, and familiars. Camping out in the farm’s outbuildings was a temporary solution at best. And while many of our classes would take place out of doors, we should have real rooms dedicated to study—sturdy tables, reliable chairs. Indoor study space would be especially important after the summer, when the weather changed and open air study became impractical.
    And magical goods didn’t come cheap, either. I could share the Osgood collection; that was part of my impetus in setting up the Academy in the first place. But my students would need their own textbooks and runes, crystals and herbs. Obtaining enough precious stones for all everyone to work at once could drive us over a fiscal cliff in one semester.
    I reminded David, “I’m responsible for raising the money we need.”
    “ We’re responsible,” he corrected. “We work together on this.”
    I was torn. His words were an immediate comfort, a balm that eased all my fear and frustration from the morning’s failed working. But I was the one who had set us on this path. I had walked away from a perfectly good job, in a perfectly good library, solely because I’d come up with a crazy idea about opening a magicarium. I said, “I can’t ask you to—”
    “You aren’t asking. I’m volunteering.”
    Volunteering.
    As my warder, David wasn’t required to raise money for me. But as my boyfriend… His calm acceptance of the financial situation doubled down on our personal relationship. I had to admit, I was thrilled by his words. And I was more than a little terrified.
    “I can go through the collection in the basement, see what I can sell,” I said. “The Washington Coven would love to get their hands on some of those books.”
    I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Coven, ever again. But if a sacrifice now—even a painful one—could guarantee full autonomy in the future? It was worth it. One hundred percent worth it.
    David shook his head. “You’d be taking away one of the main reasons students have for coming to you in the first place.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going to sell the lake.”
    “What?” My shout was loud enough to startle a red-winged blackbird from a branch at the edge of the forest. As if in sympathy, one of the ospreys shrieked a mournful cry across the water.
    “It makes sense,” he said. “We’ll be able to finance the magicarium now, and for the foreseeable future.”
    Any other day, I would have trembled in excitement at the notion that David was thinking about our foreseeable future. Now, I had to demand, “How many houses are you talking about?”
    “Not many. No more than the land can bear.”
    I wasn’t asking about the land. I was asking about David. About the farm that had been in his family for decades. About the home he loved. “How many?” I pushed.
    “The deal isn’t even final yet.”
    “How many?”
    “Thirty, to start with. Jonathan says this is a prime spot for one of those mixed communities—some condos and townhouses, along with single-family homes.”
    I couldn’t believe he was tossing off the words so easily. He sounded like he was quoting some slick, full-color, real estate brochure. Which, I realized, he probably was. Or Jonathan had been. “You can’t be serious! Developers will build roads right through the woods. They’ll need access from the highway. They’ll dig wells and septic tanks—they’ll ruin everything!”
    “Not everything.” He didn’t quite manage to push conviction into his words.
    “Near enough. I can’t let you do it, David. You love this lake!”
    And he did. I knew he did. He came out here when he was upset, when he needed a chance to think. He relaxed by the water, spinning out the tension that otherwise clung like fog on