The rain still lashed against the windows, but inside the cheese house shielded them from the nightfall.
Bartholomew led them down a narrow hall lit with soft amber lanterns, their glow bouncing oddly against the waxy, golden walls. He embodied a conspiracy theorist to his core.
"You see, insulation is key," he said, tapping on a wall segment with a proud clink. "Triple-salted rind, inner brine lining, and just a whisper of nutmeg helps keep the flavor neutral."
Willow walked in the front, arms folded. She raised an eyebrow at Joren, who gave her a helpless shrug. Gus trailed behind, eyeing the walls like he hadn't eaten in months.
Bart led the three to hallway where stairs could be seen leading down to some sort of corridor.
"All those houses out their are connected through this passage system," Bart said to them as he walked down the steps. "Most people don't even know that its habitable, but the mice sure do. Little pests."
Bartholomew flicked a small switch on the wall. A dim line of orange bulbs lit the way down to a remarkably large area which could only be described as resembling a planetary colony set-up.
"This one leads to the Cheddar Conservatory," Bartholomew pointed towards with pride. "Temperature-controlled bricks, aging vaults, and a fondue pit with emergency melt-off vents. It's all self-sustaining."
Gus whistled. "This is way bigger than I thought."
Cheese bricks stacked in rows lined every side of the chamber, each labeled with bizarre names like Sharp Infinity, Morbier of Regret, and Pink Galaxy Experimental Batch #7 – DO NOT LICK.
In another room, a fountain the size of one you might find in a park sat central to the room, overflowing with nacho cheese.
"That's the geothermal fondue pit," Bartholomew said, adjusting a dial on the wall with unnecessary flair. "Maintains optimal viscosity and detects mold intrusion down to the micron. Also works as a sauna if you sit close enough."
This guy is so freaking weird.
On the rim of the fountain a plaque that read 'In queso emergency, curdle.'
They were halfway back up the corridor when Bartholomew suddenly halted, one boot squeaking faintly against the waxy tile. He turned, slowly, suspiciously, and squinted directly at Willow.
She blinked like she committed a crime. "What?"
He stepped closer, nose wrinkling like he'd smelled betrayal. "You're awfully tall for a turnip."
Willow tilted her head. "Excuse me?"
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes further. "That's exactly what a turnip in disguise would say."
Gus coughed hard to cover his laugh. Joren tried and failed to look neutral.
Bartholomew circled her once, hands behind his back like a general inspecting war plans. "Hmm. No root protrusion… no dirt under the fingernails… eyes seem forward-facing and fully human, but that's how they get you."
Willow crossed her arms. "You think I'm a turnip?"
"I do." he stated, a matter of fact.
Willow raised an eyebrow, entirely unamused. "And what, exactly, would a turnip want with your cheese bunker?"
Bartholomew stiffened like she'd said something deeply alarming. "You think I'd tell you that if you were one? That's how the leak starts, then I got the government knocking on my door again."
Joren leaned toward Gus, whispering. "I don't think we're going to bed anytime soon."
Gus just shrugged. "Honestly, I wanna see how this plays out."
Bartholomew gave one final, dramatic sniff in Willow's direction, then turned away with a disappointed grunt. "Suspicious, but inconclusive results."
Night – Cheese Rooms
The trio followed him in silence back through the winding, waxy corridors.
Bartholomew paused outside a trio of doors painted with uneven strokes of mustard yellow. He pointed at each. "This one creaks, this one reeks, and this one speaks. Take your pick."
Joren chose the one that creaked. Willow rolled her eyes and took the one that spoke. Gus, muttering something about needing a leak-proof environment, claimed the middle.
Bartholomew handed out bundles of linens that smelled faintly of thyme and aged cheddar. "Don't use the green towel," he warned, "unless you're ready to see beyond the veil."
No one asked what that meant.
Inside the rooms, the walls were reinforced with soft curd panels. The beds were surprisingly warm, and though the rain still pounded outside, the cheese walls held firm, muffling the storm with a strange, buttery silence.
Joren lay back in his bed, staring at the flickering lantern fixed above the door. "We've slept in forests, swamps, barns, and strange Inn's," he muttered to himself. "But never a house made out of cheese."
Bartholomew's footsteps echoed away, leaving them in near-darkness save for the soft glow of their individual lanterns. Joren closed his eyes for a moment, letting the buttery hush of curd-insulated walls wrap around him like a blanket.
He didn't take long to fall asleep.
Across the hall, Willow's door whispered to life. For a room that spoke, it was likely mice that were taking refuge inside his walls.
She sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the low orange glow of the wall lantern. She could make out the noises of chittering and skittering around the room walls, but there were none inside the room itself. Willow pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I'm not a turnip," she whispered aloud, just to be safe.
In the middle room, Gus lay sprawled under several layers of blankets, face half-buried in a pillow that smelled faintly like a blend of feet and moldy cheese.
He sniffed, gagged, turned the pillow over, and covered his face with it to mask the scent of the room.
"This room reeks," he muttered, pinching his nose. "It actually reeks."
He tried to breathe through his mouth. That was somehow worse.
Gus sat up, eyes bleary. "This is a war crime," he whispered.
Somewhere behind the wall, a muffled gloop echoed through the pipes.
After a few minutes of repositioning, he finally draped one of the thinner blankets over his head like a tent and cocooned himself in the least-offensive corner of the bed.
With sheer force of will and nasal surrender, he drifted off into dreams about running through a swamp chased by cheese wheels.
Morning – Chedder Kingdom
Joren woke to the sound of… bells?
Soft, metallic chimes rang out through the hall, oddly melodic despite being clearly improvised. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. The air smelled faintly of toasted dairy.
A voice echoed through the corridor outside.
"Breakfast is sacred. Dress accordingly."
Willow's door creaked open. She stepped out, bleary-eyed, wrapped in her blanket like a wandering ghost. "Did he say sacred?"
Bartholomew was already waiting in the main room, wearing what could only be described as ceremonial robes made of stitched-together cheese labels. A colander sat atop his head like a crown.
"Welcome to the morning rites," he said, sweeping a hand toward the table. "We begin with the Ritual of the Melty Heart."
The table was set with aged gouda slices, something scrambled and orange, and toast for the lactose-intolerant.
Joren leaned toward Gus. "Do you think he actually believes any of this?"
"I have no idea." Gus replied.
Batholomew's robe had the insignia of 'The Order of the Wheelbarrow', which he chose not to explain to them.
Willow eyed the robe. "You stitched all that by hand?"
Bartholomew nodded.
Gus took a tentative bite of gouda and exhaled through his nose. "Okay. That one's actually good."
Bartholomew nodded solemnly. "Aged sixteen years in a cave only I know the location of. I am the lord of cheese, after all."
Joren cleared his throat. "So. Uh. What exactly is the Order of the Wheelbarrow?"
Bartholomew smiled faintly. "That… is for after brunch."
Willow blinked. "There's brunch too?"
He nodded once. "We do things properly here."
Gus leaned over to Joren. "Weather won't let up for a few days it sounds like, better get comfortable."
The absurd of the world was now inviting them into it's home.