How do you build a home that's bigger on the inside?

He first remembered it as a riddle, a traveling showman's conceit. Guillefresne

still remembered him vividly, even two decades on: A man dressed to what a child
thought were the nines, with touches and flourishes just a bit too outlandish—
overwaxed mustaches, overfeathered hats, overpainted eyes and lips, just a bit too
much. He performed feats of trickery and legerdemain, blew shapes in smoke and then
in fire, found any number of gilcoins in children's ears, and posed and answered
baffling riddles while juggling a steadily increasing number of strange objects and
never once did Guillesfresne see him drop one. Of course, being eight summers old,
he'd thought it all terribly wondrous and glamour-filled—not in the least because
the showman seemed to be richly-dressed despite having grey skin, like his—and
couldn't understand why his mother wouldn't let him apprentice to the traveling
jongleur.
"We are a respectable family!" She was furious when he asked her, too, and that
lecture had ended with him running out of the house, to sulk in the hollow stump of
a long-dead heavenspillar. What would have been so bad, he'd wondered, and had
resolved to run away with him—except, of course, that by then the performer had
left. He always did, as transient as the Wood Wailers thought he and his family
were, and by the time he'd returned in the fall, the angry passion had long faded.
Now Guillefresne was grown, and almost as respectable as his mother wanted him to
act. Almost—he hadn't joined the Redbellies or anything so dangerous, but he knew
some guys, and some girls, and he often went out of his way to make sure their
families had enough food, that no one vandalized their homes, that he saw them
often (and could tell a Wood Wailer that he knew for a fact when they were in a
given place)—and his wife, Feyenne, she did the same, and watched their children,
and would invite them all to dinner. As a grown man, he'd finished the job nature
had begun of hollowing out that heavenspillar stump, only he'd turned it into a
halfway respectable house (at least his mother couldn't muster too much to say
against it). He had no children of his own, but he and Feyenne were adamant that
their home was their friends'—even when it might not be convenient.
So, not for the first time, Guillefresne stood straight and tall and respectable, a
heavenspillar of a man like any Shroud elezen, tightly squeezing Feyenne's hand as
the Wailers searched their stump-home. Some vagrants, they'd said. An escaped
robber, said their reinforcements. Could be hiding anywhere. Wearing their most
concerned faces, they stepped aside and let them look for trapdoors and false walls
(Wailers couldn't fool Guillesfresne; they searched his house and not, say, his
employer's because he was the illegitimate denizen of the Shroud) under pretense of
looking for signs his home was targeted.
"Nothing," said the sergeant, and Guillefresne swallowed a sarcastic quip, a "sorry
to disappoint."
"I hope you find them," he lied through his teeth.
"We will. Stay safe," lied the sergeant right back. With that, he and his soldiers
left.
When they were all gone, Guillesfresne waited another hour before sending Feyenne
to market while he descended to the cellar, and then the floor below the cellar,
walled by ancient roots. Behind the wine casks was a stone wall that a bit of
conjury could move—and he sighed in relief when he saw what was in the cavern on
the other side: His mother and father and the family of a girl he knew,
entertaining the children with riddles and puzzles.
How do you build a home that's bigger on the inside?