Chapter 6 The （Cheese） Wheel of Fortune #2
The tasting room, he now saw, was another exercise in controlled perfection.
There were about a dozen marble bistro tables, crystal glasses for wine pairings, and carefully placed bowls of palate-friendly accompaniments waiting for Philippe’s grand presentation of the Valmont treasure.
Bayard spotted some sliced figs, pears, and apples cut into matchsticks, an assortment of nuts, and a chunky compote that looked like quince jam.
All that was missing was the actual cheese.
Bayard’s mouth watered, remembering the smell as he’d hastily swapped the cheeses in the anteroom. He wiped his hands on his pants one more time, just in case any incriminating crumbles lingered.
The group was still gathered near the countertop while their unctuous host went on about the proper tasting technique.
“Cheese is not simply something to be tasted with your mouth. You must savor it with all six of your senses. Look at it first.” Phillipe pantomimed staring lovingly at an invisible wedge of cheese.
“Next you must touch it. Gently at first, like a shy lover.” He petted his pretend cheese.
“And then with passion!” Phillipe clenched two fingers emphatically around the imaginary hunk.
“Does she make a sound? Can you hear her squeak? Do not be afraid to press your fingers into her flesh. She will not bite you! Feel how she yields, melting at your touch?”
From the other side of the chamber, Bayard heard a loud snort that he was certain came from Exandra but he dared not look in that direction, lest he succumb to a fit of nervous laughter.
“Next we smell…” Phillipe inhaled long and loud, holding the pretend cheese aloft at arm’s length. “And now it is time to put it in your mouth…” Phillippe puckered up like he was about to smooch the cheese.
Touring this facility was such an elite privilege, but Phillipe was so over the top that Bayard was already second guessing his decision to bring the group here.
Most of all, he hated the way the wizard cheesemaker looked down his nose at Exandra, like he resented a giantess gaining access to his inner sanctum.
As prestigious and exclusive as the place was, Bayard didn’t think he’d want to bring another group back.
Jasper caught his eye now and mouthed a question. “Where did you go?”
He mouthed “Water” and gestured to Fred’s backpack.
Jasper nodded, satisfied, and turned his attention back to Wren, who was paying rapt attention.
At long last, Philippe finally, finally, went to fetch the cheese from the anteroom. He presented the platter with a flourish, completely unaware he was about to serve contraband Yule cheese to common tourists.
“This is a standard Valmont Roquefort,” he announced as he sliced into it and passed the wedges around. “Eight months old, the minimum acceptable age for proper flavor development. Note the even distribution of blue veining, the creamy ivory paste, the—”
But no one was listening anymore because the moment the first person took a bite, everything changed.
“Oh,” Wren breathed, her eyes going wide. “Oh, my.”
“This is...” Jasper trailed off, staring at the cheese in his hand like it was sentient and might answer back.
Minerva took a small piece, and the moment it touched her tongue, warmth bloomed through her chest. Honey.
Wildflowers. Summer days that lasted forever.
Every happy memory she’d ever had seemed to surface at once, golden and perfect.
She knew this taste. There was something familiar about it. It was right on the tip of her tongue…
“Zippy,” she said, turning to her husband with sudden urgent affection. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”
“Only seventeen times,” he said, grinning at her with the same dopey expression she wore. “But I’ll never tire of hearing it.”
Around the table, the effects rippled outward. Someone started giggling. Someone else began philosophizing about the nature of perfection. The air filled with a gentle, dreamy haze.
Wren turned to Jasper, her professional reserve completely dissolved. “I can’t believe I’ve only just noticed your eyes,” she said wonderingly. “They’re like... like warm amber in sunlight. Have they always been that beautiful?”
Jasper, his face flushed, took her hand. “Your hair is so perfectly braided. And the way you frame your photographs, capturing people in moments of joy… The way you see the world! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re so earnest,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “So genuinely kind. How did I not fully appreciate this from the moment we met?”
Across the room, Bayard and Exandra had gravitated toward each other like magnets. They grew closer and closer until their hands somehow found and entwined with each other’s. Then their eyes locked.
“I’m so happy,” Bayard said softly, “that the old gang is back together.”
But he wasn’t looking at anyone else in the room. He was looking only at her.
“Yes,” Exandra breathed, her usual sharp edges completely softened. “Together again.”
She lifted their joined hands and pressed them against her chest, over her heart. “I’ve missed checking in with you. Knowing you’d be there when I called with a question or a request for support.”
“I’ll always be there. I’ve never stopped—” Bayard started, but then Philippe’s voice shattered the moment.
“Mon Dieu!” The fromagier had taken a piece himself, and his face had gone from pleased to confused to absolutely horrified in the space of seconds. “This is... this is the Yule cheese! How did—?”
He rushed from the room, his footsteps echoing in the caves. The group remained in their dreamy haze, still holding hands and staring at each other with new eyes, the dizzying effects of the magical cheese still swirling through their systems.
Philippe returned moments later, pale as milk. “A wheel is missing! Someone has stolen a Yule wheel! This is—” He looked at the platter where they’d all been happily eating. “You’ve consumed royal cheese! This is a disaster!”
“But it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” someone said, still giggly.
“It is so much better than gorgonzola cheese,” said another passenger.
“What? Of course it is!” Philippe wrung his hands. “It’s made for kings! And now—one of the families on our worthiness list will have to be denied. They’ve already been expecting it. And this entire wheel is wasted, contaminated by common consumers!”
Wren, still holding Jasper’s hand but regaining some of her journalistic clarity, asked, “What are the implications? Who loses their cheese?”
“The Beaumonts of Marseille,” Philippe said miserably. “They’re always the last family added to the list each year. They’ll just have to be removed.”
“That seems harsh,” Jasper said, his earnestness returning as the cheese effects began to fade. “And you’re not really going to throw the rest of this wheel away, are you? Why not share what’s left of this wheel with the local villagers? It shouldn’t go to waste.”
Philippe looked like Jasper had suggested setting fire to the caves. “Share Yule Roquefort with the village?”
“Why not?” Jasper’s voice was stronger now. “Aren’t they the ones who maintain the roads to your fromagerie? Who buy your standard cheese? Who support your business all year long?”
Philippe opened his mouth to object, then closed it. Then opened it again. “I... suppose... that is technically...”
“It seems the kind thing to do,” Zephyr added. “And the right thing.”
“Very well,” Philippe said through gritted teeth. “The remainder of this wheel shall be distributed to the village. But the Beaumonts will still—”
“Actually,” Minerva spoke up, her voice clear and calm, “I believe my family is on your worthiness list. We enjoy a wheel of your fine cheese every Yule. I used to look forward to it. The Lathrops of Boston?”
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Philippe’s entire demeanor shifted like someone had flipped a switch.
“L-l-l-lathrop?” he stuttered, staring at her. “As in descended from the great Flora Lathrop?”
“My great-great-grandmother, yes.”
Philippe actually bowed. “Madame Lathrop, I had no idea! Your family’s contributions to French magical culture are impressive. Why, the preservation spells for the Loire Valley vineyards alone, not to mention the development of—”
“Yes, yes, yes…” Minerva said, a bit impatiently. “I’d like to donate my family’s wheel. That way no one else needs to be removed from your list. Just make sure that the rest of this wheel gets shared with the townsfolk.”
Philippe stammered, clearly torn between horror at the suggestion and the desire to please someone of Minerva’s lineage. “That is... most generous, Madame. I will make sure your wishes are honored.”
“Thank you.” Minerva turned back to the group, where Zephyr was beaming at her with obvious pride.
Exandra stood apart from the rest of the group, her arms crossed, watching the entire exchange with a tight jaw and narrow eyes. Minerva glanced her way, hoping for perhaps a moment of warmth and connection, but when their eyes met, Exandra’s expression was cold as ice.
The trip back to the ship was quiet, everyone still processing the lingering effects of the magical cheese.
Jasper and Wren sat close together, not quite holding hands but with their shoulders touching.
Minerva and Zephyr walked arm in arm, content.
The other passengers murmured softly about the extraordinary experience.
Bayard limped along with Fred’s backpack, noticeably lighter now that he’d managed to sneak off and ditch the wheel of regular Roquefort in the melee that followed the initial discovery of the switch. Hopefully someone would notice it in the refrigerator in the butler’s pantry before it went bad.
He might burst from the tangle of emotions in his chest. Guilt, satisfaction, fear, defiance, and underneath it all, a fierce joy at having pulled off the switch. He’d acted on impulse, and he’d do it again if he had the opportunity. .
Exandra caught up with him as they boarded the ship.
“That was certainly strange,” she said without preamble.
“What was?” Bayard’s voice came out higher than intended.
“The switched wheels. It doesn’t match the Culture Vulture’s pattern at all.
” She was studying him with those sharp eyes, the ones that had seen through so many lies while evaluating rival operatives in the field.
“The other incidents were more destructive. Designed to ruin production. But this? This just felt like... mischief.”
“Maybe the Culture Vulture isn’t all bad,” Bayard said, trying to sound confident. “Perhaps they’re just trying to make a point.”
Exandra shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. This incident was different. It was almost like...”
She trailed off, her gaze moving past him to where Minerva was coming up the gangplank, and her expression darkened.
“Never mind,” she said abruptly. “I’ll figure it out. That’s what I do.”
She walked away before Bayard could respond, leaving him standing there with his backpack reeking of evidence and his heart in his throat. Fred quacked softly and bumped his head against Bayard’s hand.
“I know,” Bayard whispered. “I’m in way over my head, aren’t I?”
Fred just stared at him with those knowing eyes.
In her cabin later that evening, Exandra paced, her mind churning.
There were two actual incidents now, counting today’s switch and the incident upstream that she knew Bayard had reported to the Society.
She’d done her best to make the meltdown at the Swiss Fromagerie look like a real sabotage, something professional and dangerous.
Though of course she’d had a plan to save the day before any cheese was harmed.
If only Minerva hadn’t gotten there first. She still couldn’t believe she’d been foiled by a mouse shifter.
But today’s incident was different. Mostly because it was so good. She wished she’d thought of it first. It was almost playful. Suddenly she found herself rooting for the Culture Vulture, and wishing the villain whose name she’d invented was real.
She thought of Bayard’s expression when Philippe had been pontificating about worthiness. The way his jaw had tightened. The way he’d disappeared for those few minutes.
It couldn’t have been him, could it?
No. She dismissed the possibility. It was impossible. Bayard wasn’t a saboteur. He was careful, methodical, thoughtful, and above all a rule follower. He would never…