Chapter 20
URSAK
Maya adapts with typical resourcefulness.
She claims the bedroom corner for her writing setup, hangs noise-canceling curtains, and institutes what she calls "quiet hours" with the authority of a drill sergeant.
I practice vocal exercises in the bathroom during her morning coffee ritual, which results in interesting acoustic experiments but questionable domestic harmony.
"We need more space," she announces one Tuesday, laptop balanced on her knees while she sits cross-legged on our bed. Her "office."
"Bigger apartments cost more. My blog income is steady but not miraculous."
I nod thoughtfully while concealing my secret. For three months, I've been researching real estate during lunch breaks, walking through properties with patient realtors who've learned not to comment when doorframes prove inadequate for orcish proportions.
The Victorian house on Maple Street appears during my fourth week of searching.
Built in 1887, it features twelve-foot ceilings, original hardwood floors, and enough space for a proper home office.
Also a dining room that could accommodate both our families simultaneously, assuming future holiday gatherings.
The selling price makes my professor salary weep, but my translation work has provided unexpected supplemental income. Romance novels, it turns out, have enthusiastic international markets.
"I'm interested," I tell the realtor, a persistent woman named Carol who wears sensible shoes and carries measuring tape.
"The kitchen needs updating," she warns. "And the electrical system is somewhat historical."
Historical proves optimistic. The kitchen predates modern safety codes, the bathroom fixtures remember the Eisenhower administration, and the basement contains mysterious pipes that may or may not connect to actual plumbing.
But the front parlor has acoustics that make my voice resonate like cathedral bells. The upstairs bedrooms offer space for separate offices. The backyard could accommodate a garden ambitious enough to supply actual vegetables instead of wilted grocery store offerings.
I make an offer.
Keeping secrets from Maya requires tactical planning worthy of military campaigns.
Contractor meetings happen during her coffee shop writing sessions.
Phone calls occur during my campus office hours.
The down payment paperwork gets completed at the university library while she believes I'm researching nineteenth-century dialectical variations.
"You're acting strange," she observes one evening, curled against my side while we watch television.
"Strange how?"
"Secretive. Distracted. You asked me to repeat something three times during dinner."
I press a kiss to her hair, inhaling the scent of her vanilla shampoo. "Work stress. End of semester grading."
Not entirely false. I am grading final exams while simultaneously coordinating electrical updates and arguing with contractors about load-bearing wall modifications.
The renovation timeline becomes ambitious bordering on foolhardy. Maya's birthday is November fifteenth. The contractors promise completion by November tenth, which provides a comfortable buffer assuming no catastrophic delays.
October brings three catastrophic delays.
First: the original hardwood floors hide water damage requiring complete subflooring replacement.
Second: updating the electrical system reveals that previous owners possessed creative interpretations of safety codes.
Third: the kitchen renovation uncovers a family of raccoons who've established residence and refuse eviction.
"The raccoons aren't technically our problem," contractor Pete explains during an emergency phone call I take while hiding in the university's supply closet. "But they've become emotionally attached to the space."
"How emotionally attached can raccoons become?"
"They've built a nursery in the pantry. Babies involved."
Maya's birthday approaches while I negotiate raccoon relocation services and explain to her why I'm receiving increasingly frantic phone calls about "wildlife management."
"Pest control research," I tell her when she raises questioning eyebrows. "For my linguistics department. Studying... um... animal communication patterns."
She accepts this explanation with the patience of someone married to an academic whose research interests occasionally veer toward the eccentric.
November tenth arrives with good news: raccoons successfully relocated, electrical system operational, hardwood floors gleaming. Bad news: kitchen cabinets delayed, bathroom fixtures backordered, front porch steps somewhat structurally questionable.
"Close enough," I decide.
November fifteenth dawns crisp and clear. Maya wakes expecting her usual birthday routine: coffee, croissants, small thoughtful gifts exchanged in our cramped bedroom.
Instead, I present her with a blindfold and car keys.
"Adventure birthday," I announce. "Trust me."
"The last time you said 'trust me,' we ended up lost in that corn maze for four hours."
"This involves significantly less agricultural confusion."
The drive to Maple Street takes twelve minutes during which Maya speculates increasingly wildly about our destination. Spa day? Surprise party? Elaborate restaurant reservation? Her guesses grow more creative as we navigate residential neighborhoods.
"Are we visiting someone? Meeting your secret American orc relatives? Oh God, please tell me you didn't arrange some kind of cultural exchange program..."
I park in front of 1247 Maple Street and guide her carefully up the newly reinforced front steps.
"Okay," I say, positioning her before the front door. "Remove the blindfold."
She tugs the fabric away and blinks in the afternoon sunlight. The Victorian house rises before us, three stories of restored pale blue siding and white trim, wraparound porch complete with swing, bay windows catching the light like jewels.
"It's beautiful," she says slowly. "Whose house is it?"
I produce the keys from my pocket with perhaps excessive theatrical flourish. "Ours."
Maya stares. Then at me. Then back at the house.
"Ours?"
"Happy birthday, wife."
"You bought this? Without telling me?"
"Surprise?"
She circles the porch, examining details: the restored gingerbread trim, the original stained glass panels flanking the front door, the flower boxes I installed last weekend and attempted to fill with seasonally appropriate plants.
"Ursak." Her voice carries warning undertones.
"The ceilings are twelve feet high," I explain quickly. "Perfect acoustics for vocal work. The front parlor has natural sound amplification. No more bathroom practice sessions."
"You can't just buy a house without discussing it!"
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Houses aren't surprise gifts! Houses are major financial decisions requiring mutual consultation and careful planning!"
She's right, of course. But watching her examine the wraparound porch, noting how she tests the stability of the porch swing and peers through the bay windows, I detect underlying excitement beneath her reasonable objections.
"Would you like to see inside?" I ask carefully.
Maya considers this, hands on her hips. "We're definitely discussing your decision-making process later."
"Understood."
The front door opens onto the restored foyer, complete with original chandelier and refinished stairs. Maya steps inside and stops, tilting her head to listen as our footsteps echo off the high ceilings.
"The acoustics are incredible," she admits.
"Wait until you hear the parlor."
I lead her through rooms still smelling faintly of fresh paint and new varnish. The kitchen gleams with modern appliances set into vintage-style cabinetry. The dining room could seat twelve comfortably. The upstairs bedrooms offer space for proper offices, guest accommodations, and...
"This house is enormous," Maya says, standing in what the realtor optimistically labeled the "master suite." "Just the two of us rattling around in all this space."
"Well," I say carefully, "perhaps not just the two of us forever."
She turns to study my expression. "What do you mean?"
"The house has good bones for a growing family. Strong foundation. Safe neighborhood. Excellent schools nearby."
Maya goes very still. "Growing family."
"Eventually. When we're ready."
"Ursak." She sits heavily on the built-in window seat. "We've never discussed children."
"We've discussed the future. Building a life together."
"That doesn't automatically include children. Not everyone wants children. Not everyone should have children."
The conversation takes a turn I hadn't anticipated. Maya's expression shifts from surprise to something approaching alarm.
"I haven't thought about it seriously," she continues. "Kids require planning. Stability. Financial security. Patience. I can barely keep a houseplant alive."
"You keep Sir Pouncealot alive."
"Sir Pouncealot belongs to the building. He's community property."
I sit beside her on the window seat, which creaks ominously under my weight but holds. "We don't need to decide anything immediately."
"But you want children."
"I want a family with you. Whatever form that takes."
Maya traces patterns on the window glass, watching afternoon light shift across the empty room. "What if we considered adoption?"
The suggestion surprises me. "Adoption?"
"There are children who need homes. Human children, orc children. Kids who've been displaced or orphaned or whose families can't care for them."
"You've thought about this."
"I've been thinking about a lot of things since we got married. What our life might look like. What kind of parents we'd be." She glances at me sideways. "Maybe one of each. A human child and an orc child. Show the world that families come in all combinations."
The idea appeals to me more than I expected. "That would certainly make holiday gatherings interesting."
"Are you open to it? Adoption instead of biological children?"
"I'm open to building a family with you however feels right." I take her hand, noting how small her fingers look wrapped in mine. "Though we should probably master living in this house before adding children to the equation."
Maya laughs, tension easing from her shoulders. "Good point. I haven't even figured out which room should be my office."
"The front bedroom has excellent natural light."
"You've thought about everything, haven't you?"
"I've thought about us. Our future. What would make you happy."
She leans against my shoulder, solid and warm and perfectly fitted to my side despite our size difference. "This house makes me happy. Scared, but happy."
"Scared?"
"It's so much responsibility. Mortgage payments. Property taxes. Maintenance. What if I can't afford my half?"
"Our half," I correct. "We're married. Everything is ours now."
"That's going to take some getting used to."
"We have time. Plenty of time to figure everything out."
Maya stands and walks to the center of the empty room, arms spread wide. "Hello, house," she calls out, her voice echoing off the walls. "We're your new family."
The acoustics carry her words beautifully, multiplying them until the whole space seems to respond.
"Your turn," she tells me. "Christen our new home with that beautiful voice."
I consider my options, then begin reciting the orc blessing for new dwellings. My voice fills the room like music, rolling off the walls and returning transformed. The words speak of protection, prosperity, and peace - hopes for the life we'll build within these walls.
When I finish, Maya applauds. "That was perfect."
"Welcome home, wife."
"Welcome home, husband."