Chapter 3
FROMAGE THE BEGINNING
Morning light painted the Swiss Alps in shades of rose and gold as The Celestine Queen settled down onto a small, frozen mountain lake, its hull barely kissing the ice.
Minerva stood at the railing with her coat buttoned against the crisp air, watching drifts of snow blow across the lake’s surface like ghostly dancers.
“Fromagerie Sommet is somewhere up there.” Zephyr pointed toward a cluster of buildings nestled into the mountainside. “Bayard says it’s been in the same family for seven generations.”
“How will we get up there?” Minerva asked.
“Acutally, I think I hear our ride arriving now.” Zephyr held a hand to his ear.
Minerva heard the hoofbeats, too. Three wooden wagons, painted with simple floral motifs, were headed their way, pulled by large, handsome brown horses with bells on their padded harnesses.
One of the drivers waved as they pulled the wagons up alongside the banks of the lake.
“I’d better bring a sweater.” Minerva reached for her favorite cardigan, a soft blue cashmere wool with mother of pearl buttons and secret pockets.
The embroidered acorns around the collar always reminded her of the literary squirrels back home in Primrose Court.
She wondered what they were reading in their book club this week.
Fifteen minutes later, they piled into the waiting wagons, lined with warm blankets and with complimentary thermoses full of hot mulled cider to be enjoyed on the short trip up the mountainside.
Minerva noticed Exandra emerging last from the cruise ship.
Her hair was coiled efficiently at the nape of her neck beneath a close-fitting knit beanie cap.
She wore practical hiking boots, thick leggings, and a black, high-tech down parka with the Society logo on the back.
She cut an impressive figure. The mountains reflected off her mirrored aviator sunglasses as she scanned the perimeter, assessing the risks and cataloguing the terrain.
Bayard saw her, too. They nodded at each other and then he quickly looked away, his grip tightening on his walking stick as he climbed into the sled with Minerva and Zephyr.
The mountainside Swiss town looked like something from a storybook, with traditional Alpine architecture, carved wooden balconies, and flower boxes that would be overflowing with geraniums in the summertime.
But as they drew closer, Minerva noticed more modern touches: solar panels disguised as roof tiles, gleaming mechanized windows that probably had magical climate controls, and outside the fromagerie, what looked like a brand-new loading dock.
Bayard sat at the front of the wagon, Fred’s carrier in his lap, pointing out features to the assembled passengers.
“The Sommet family has been making Gruyère since 1847, but the current generation has introduced some welcome innovations while still maintaining the traditional methods that make their cheese exceptional.”
Jasper sat beside Wren, a notebook full of facts balanced on his knee. “Did you know that authentic Gruyère can only be made in certain regions of Switzerland? It’s a protected designation of origin, which means—”
“I did know that, actually,” Wren said gently, her camera already out and capturing the golden morning light on the mountains. “But thank you.”
Jasper’s face fell.
“But did you know that Gruyère cheese is high in calcium, K2, vitamin B12, and essential Omega fatty oils?” Jasper ticked off some of the health benefits of the cheese. “It’s good for heart health, skin health, nerve health…”
“Plus it tastes delicious.” Bayard patted Jasper’s arm in a hopeful bid to slow down his blathering prattle. “I think that’s what most of us will be focused on today.”
“It’s impressive that you’ve researched so thoroughly.” Wren smiled, glancing at him. “Most hospitality students wouldn’t have bothered.”
His expression brightened. “Really? I just wanted to make sure I could answer questions if anyone asked. Not that you would need to ask me. You probably know so much more than I do. You don’t need me to—”
“Jasper.” She smiled. “Breathe.”
He took a visible breath, then laughed at himself. “Right. Breathing. I can do that.”
Zephyr caught Minerva’s eye and they shared a knowing look. Crushes were so delightfully awkward.
As soon as the cruisers climbed out from the wagons, they were greeted by a young couple. The man was tall and broad-shouldered with clear skin, rosy cheeks, and an easy smile. The woman beside him had her blonde hair pulled back in a practical bun and wore an apron over sturdy work clothes.
“Welcome, welcome!” the man called out. His English was excellent, with only the faintest trace of an accent. “I am Lukas Sommet, and this is my wife, Anja. We are so honored to host you as one of your stops on the Celestine Line’s cheese tour.”
“The honor is ours,” Bayard said warmly, shaking their hands. “Your reputation precedes you. I’ve heard wonderful things about your recent modernization efforts.”
Anja beamed. “We’ve worked very hard. My grandfather was set in the old ways, you know.
He steadfastly refused to make any changes to the way we do things.
I understand… what is that saying?” Anja’s accent was a bit thicker than Lukas’s.
, “Don’t fix what isn’t broke?” She smiled wistfully, obviously thinking of her grandpère.
“Still, when he passed and left us the fromagerie, Lukas and I knew we wanted to honor tradition while also embracing what magic and technology could offer.”
“A delicate balance,” Zephyr observed.
“Very delicate,” Lukas agreed. “But worth it. Come, let me show you all what we’ve accomplished.”
The entrance to the fromagerie opened into a modern visitor center—gleaming counters, interactive displays about cheese-making, and a small café area where guests could sample products.
But just beyond, through large windows, they could see the heart of the operation: the production room with its massive copper vats and bustling workers.
“First, let me show you our control room,” Lukas said with obvious pride. “This is where we monitor everything, temperature, humidity, bacterial cultures. All magical, all precise.”
He opened a door off the main corridor to reveal a small chamber filled with glowing instruments and interactive wall charts that updated in real-time. Minerva glimpsed rows of numbers, graphs showing temperature curves, and what looked like a map of the extensive cave system beneath the building.
“Quite impressive,” Bayard murmured. “The network of caves looks like it goes on forever.”
“Indeed,” Exandra agreed. She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “So many places to hide.”
Minerva saw her taking mental notes.
“But come away from all this,” Anja said, already moving ahead. “The real magic happens in the production room. This way, everybody!”
The production room smelled strongly of warm milk and sharp, clean copper. Three enormous vats dominated the space, each large enough to hold at least a thousand gallons. Workers moved with practiced efficiency, stirring, testing, monitoring.
“Gruyère begins with pure, raw cow’s milk,” Bayard explained to the group, falling naturally into his professorial voice.
The group clustered around him, and Minerva noticed how he came alive when teaching.
His slight limp was forgotten as his whole being focused on sharing with the group.
“The cheesemakers add the two specific bacterial cultures, Lactobacillus helveticus and Streptococcus thermophilus, to get the process started. These aren’t just ingredients.
They’re living communities that have been carefully maintained, sometimes for centuries. ”
“Like sourdough starter?” someone in the group shouted out.
“Exactly like sourdough starter,” Bayard confirmed. “And just as temperamental. The cultures must be kept at precise temperatures, fed regularly, and protected from contamination.”
Anja stepped forward to personalize the tour. “Our family maintains a culture library in a specialized chamber. My great-grandmother started it in 1923. Every morning, I check on the cultures like I would check on my own children.”
Lukas demonstrated the heating process, the careful monitoring as the milk reached exactly thirty-two degrees Celsius.
“The timing is everything,” he said. “Too hot, and you kill the cultures. Too cold, and they won’t activate properly.
You must pay attention. Listen to what the cheese is telling you. ”
They watched as rennet was added, and the milk began to coagulate into curds. Next the workers cut the curds with specialized harps, and stirred them slowly, methodically.
“How long does it all take?” Wren asked, her camera clicking softly as she documented the process.
“From milk to a shaped wheel, about four hours of active production,” Bayard said. “Then the wheels are pressed, brined, and moved to the aging caves. That’s where time truly does its magic.”
Jasper had been listening intently, occasionally glancing at his notecards but mostly watching Wren. When she moved to get a better angle for a photograph, he quickly stepped forward to hold back a hanging cord that might have been in her way.
“Thank you,” she said, surprised and a bit delighted when his hand lightly brushed her collarbone.
“I just—I noticed you like to frame people in your shots. Not just the equipment. The workers, their hands, their faces.”
She lowered her camera, looking at him with new interest. “You noticed all that?”
“I do some photography, too. For events and food styling. I love capturing the joy in people’s expressions when they taste something amazing, or the pride on a chef’s face when they plate something beautiful.” He flushed. “Sorry, I’m rambling again.”