Chapter Six: The Hall of Maidens
"We cannot trust the viscosity without a live test!" Gustave screamed, brandishing a hose attached to a large copper vat. "The fondue must flow! It must cascade!"
"Is it hot?" I asked from my position on the table, currently strapped down with the Stilton Saddle which was, confusingly, the only part of me that felt secure.
"Lukewarm!" Gustave promised. "Body temperature! Like a gentle hug from a cow. Barnaby, engage the pump!"
Barnaby hesitated. "Gustave, the pressure valve is sticky. Maybe we should—"
"ENGAGE!"
Barnaby sighed and turned a wheel. The copper vat shuddered. There was a gurgle, a hiss, and then a sound like a wet sneeze from a giant.
SPLAT.
It wasn't a cascade. It was an explosion. A geyser of tepid, stringy cheese sauce erupted from the nozzle, blasting me directly in the chest. It didn't stop. It covered my face, my hair, the apron, and the expensive mahogany.
"Cut the power!" Arthur shouted, diving behind a chair.
Barnaby wrenched the wheel back, but the damage was done. I lay there, dripping, smelling like a cinema nacho stand gone wrong.
"Too thick," Gustave noted, tasting a glob from the table. "Needs more white wine."
"I quit," I said. The words bubbled through a layer of cheddar.
"You can't quit!" the Colonel barked. "We’ve degreased you!"
"Get her cleaned up!" Arthur ordered. "Barnaby, scrape her down. Hardrind, check the inventory. We try again in twenty minutes!"
I didn't wait to be scraped. I wriggled out of the sodden ropes—slipping free easily thanks to the cheese lubrication—and ran. I blinded stumbled out of the dining hall, trailing yellow footprints across the antique rugs.
I needed a bathroom. I needed a lawyer. I needed to not smell like a fondue pot.
I took a wrong turn at the suit of armor and found myself in a corridor I hadn't seen before. It was dark, silent, and lined with velvet curtains. I pushed through a set of double doors and froze.
I was in a gallery. But not just any gallery.
This was the Hall of the Grande Fromage.
Portraits lined the walls, lit by flickering sconces. Dozens of them. They depicted women—tall women, short women, wide women—all striking the same pose. They were standing upright, proud and stoic, wearing nothing but the frilly white apron and a look of grim determination.
I walked down the line, mesmerized.
1894: Matilda "The Gouda Goddess" Throckmorton. She was holding a wheel of cheese like a discus.
1924: Betty "The Brie Knees" Boop. She was smoking a cigarette while balancing a cracker on her shoulder.
And then, at the end of the row, a painting dated 1992.
The woman in the oil painting was younger, her hair dark and lustrous, her figure... architectural. She stood with her chin raised, eyes blazing with defiance, a massive wedge of Stilton resting on her hip.
The plaque read:
Hinchcliff. "The Iron Platter."
I squinted. The nose was unmistakable. The glare was identical. "Mrs. Hardrind?" I whispered.
My foot bumped against a small display case beneath the portrait. Inside was a leather-bound book. I wiped a cheesy hand on my apron and opened it. It was a diary.
Journal Entry: October 14th, 1992 My shins are bruised. The Colonel insists on the Edam, but it rolls. I have told Arthur that if he tries to balance the chutney on my naval again, I shall scream. And yet... there is power in the stillness. When the ropes tighten, I am not a maid. I am the altar. I am the feast. Also, the tips are excellent.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
I jumped, dropping the book. Mrs. Hardrind stood in the doorway. She wasn't looking at me; she was looking at the painting of her younger, naked self.
"You..." I stammered. "You were a..."
"I was the best," she said, her voice unusually soft. "I could hold a breath for four minutes. I could balance a tier of wedding cake on my lumbar spine without rippling the icing. They called me The Iron Platter."
She walked over and closed the book. "It is a noble tradition, Plumb. It requires discipline. It requires grit. Do you have grit? Or are you just soggy?"
"I'm covered in cheese sauce, Mrs. Hardrind. I feel ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?" She turned to me, the old steel back in her eyes. "You are saving a legacy! You are—"
CRASH.
The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs.
"I don't care what time it is!" a voice shrieked from the hallway. It sounded like a ferret that had inhaled helium. "I want to see the assets!"
"Mr. Squeeze," Hardrind hissed.
We ran to the balcony overlooking the foyer. Below, Lord Arthur and Barnaby were trying to block the path of a tiny man in a sharp grey suit. He was holding a briefcase like a weapon.
"Mr. Squeeze!" Arthur pleaded. "The inspection isn't until tomorrow night!"
"Change of plans, Fortescue!" Squeeze yelled. He checked a digital watch. "I have a flight to Zurich on Sunday morning. I’m moving the foreclosure deadline up. You have until 7:00 PM tomorrow. If I am not fed, watered, and dazzled by a cheese presentation of biblical proportions by then, I am seizing the house, the grounds, and that ridiculous dog."
"Not the dog!" Barnaby gasped.
"7:00 PM!" Squeeze shouted, spinning on his heel. "I’ll be here with my appetite and my lawyer. One crumb out of place, one wobbling cracker, and you’re finished!"
He slammed the door, leaving silence in his wake.
Arthur looked up, his face pale. "7:00 PM? That’s... that’s an hour earlier. We lose an hour of prep time!"
"We lose the chilling window for the Gazpacho!" Gustave wailed from the kitchen doorway.
Barnaby looked up and saw me leaning over the banister, dripping with congealed sauce, standing next to the former Cheese Maiden of '92.
"Penny!" he called out. "Please tell me you didn't quit. Please tell me you're ready to be a legend."
I looked at the portrait of Hinchcliff. I looked at the panic in Barnaby’s blue eyes. I looked at the diary in Hardrind’s hand.
I wiped a glob of cheese from my eyebrow.
"I'm not quitting," I called down. "But if we're doing this, I want double the rope. And someone get me a towel. I have a legacy to uphold."