Then someone starts laughing. Elena, I think. The sound is infectious, spreading through the crowd until the entire reception is roaring with laughter and applause.
"Well," Ursak says, grinning at the cake balanced in his hand, "I suppose this is one way to serve dessert."
Still holding the cake aloft, he scoops a fingerful of frosting with his free hand and offers it to me. "Traditional cake feeding?"
I open my mouth and let him feed me the frosting, which is delicious and probably costs more per ounce than my wedding dress. The crowd cheers again, and I a handful to return the favor.
"To quick reflexes!" someone shouts.
"To strong hands!" adds another voice.
"To catching your bride when she falls!" Dex calls out, which makes everyone laugh even harder.
We manage to salvage most of the cake, turns out Ursak's hand is cleaner than the floor would have been, and the party continues late into the night. The dance floor becomes a fascinating cultural exchange as orcish traditional dances meet human wedding reception classics. Watching my seventy-year-old grandmother attempt something called theThunder Stompwith cousin Grok is worth every stressful moment of the planning process.
By midnight, half the orcish guests are teaching the Electric Slide to curious humans, while my college friends are attempting to master what appears to be a ritualistic war dance involving a lot of chest thumping and coordinated roaring.
"How do you feel, Mrs. Irontongue?" Ursak asks during a slow song, holding me close on the dance floor.
Mrs. Irontongue.I'm going to need time to get used to that.
"Tired. Happy. Slightly drunk." I lean back to look at him. "How about you, Mr. Irontongue?"
"Complete," he says simply. "For the first time in my life, completely whole."
The fairy lights overhead, because of course we had fairy lights, cast everything in a golden glow as we sway together, surrounded by the organized chaos of our families celebrating. It's loud and messy and completely perfect.
"No regrets about the cathedral?" I ask.
"None. Though I do regret the lack of traditional war paint."
"Next time."
"There won't be a next time. You're stuck with me now."
"Good," I say, and kiss him as the song ends and our ridiculous, wonderful new family cheers around us. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
CHAPTER 20
URSAK
Six months of married life in apartment 4B teaches me several important lessons about cohabitation. First: Maya requires significantly more closet space than I initially calculated. Second: my voice projection exercises at dawn are less charming to a spouse than to an empty apartment. Third: when your wife works from home and you work from home, "home" becomes very small very quickly.
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."
"The building has larger units available," I suggest, though the thought of leaving 4B creates an unexpected pang. This cramped space witnessed our entire courtship.
"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.
