Chapter 6 The （Cheese） Wheel of Fortune
THE (CHEESE) WHEEL OF FORTUNE
Phillippe had them all don white lab coats, shoe covers, and hair nets before leading them into the production area where workers were piercing finished wheels with long golden needles, creating channels for air to reach the interior of the cheese.
“These holes allow oxygen to penetrate,” Philippe explained. “The Penicillium roqueforti is aerobic—it needs air to grow. Without the piercing, you simply have a mild white cheese. With it, you have Roquefort.” He spoke the name of his beloved cheese with passion and reverence.
They all watched as the workers moved with practiced precision, each wheel receiving exactly forty-two pierces—no more, no less.
“That’s so cool,” one of the passengers commented. “I’ve always loved blue cheese. Have you ever tried a bacon gorgonzola burger?”
Phillipe froze, a look of sheer horror on his face. He spun on his heel, turning to face the passenger.
“What was that you just said?” he hissed.
The passenger cowered, unsure whether or not to repeat himself.
But before he even had a chance to respond, Phillipe went on.
“Gorgonzola. You dare to mention this cow filth in my caves? This paste that is so awful they name it after monsters? You know what? I think it is parfait you should combine it with something as terrible as a ‘burger,’ which is quite possibly the least refined sandwich, from the least refined continent!” He was indignant and only just getting started, Minerva feared.
“How dare you even say the name of this inferior cheese here in my temple!”
“I, uh… I’m sorry?” the passenger stammered.
“I think,” Bayard intervened, attempting to deescalate the situation, “what my tour group member was trying to say was that your blue cheese is so superior to anything else he’s ever tried.” He shot a quick look at the passenger, who nodded vigorously, taking the ball and running with it.
“Right, that’s exactly what I meant. Gorgonzola… Feh! I would never touch the stuff. I can’t believe it’s legal to even sell it.” He breathed heavily as Phillippe stared at him.
Phillipe flicked a speck of imaginary dust off his jacket.
“Yes, well, we all know that the American Ordinaries will eat anything.
I cannot say I am the least bit surprised.
Rest assured we will not be serving up any monstrous cow products here.
Here we have only two types of genuine Roquefort. The regular, and the Yule Cru.
“Would you tell us more about your Yule cheese?” Wren asked, her notebook out again. “What makes that one so special?”
Philippe’s entire bearing shifted, becoming even more pompous if that were possible.
“Ah. The Yule Roquefort is produced exclusively from the milk of our magical sheep. They are the ones you may have seen on the hillside on your way in. These creatures graze exclusively on wildflowers pollinated by magical bees. The result is a cheese with subtle honey notes that perfectly complement the bold blue veins. The flavor infuses the coming year with both a sweetness and a depth that is intoxicating.”
“Will we have a chance to taste it?” Wren asked hopefully.
Philippe looked at her as if she’d asked to borrow his crown.
“Heavens, no! Absolutely not! The Yule cheese is reserved for magical royalty and certain distinguished families on our worthiness list. It is far too rare and precious for casual sampling by tourists.” Phillippe looked around the room, eyes lingering a bit too long on Exandra who was openly glaring at him now.
“Worthiness list?” Minerva asked, her tone carefully neutral.
“Families of particular magical distinction, impeccable lineage, significant contributions to our community.” Philippe waved his hand dismissively. “We produce only twenty wheels each season. They are all already spoken for.”
Exandra rolled her eyes so hard Minerva was surprised they didn’t audibly click. She saw the agent catch Bayard’s eye behind Phillippe’s back. Bayard made a face back at her that indicated they were both on the same page. It was a look that said, “Can you believe this pompous idiot?”
This interaction was so natural, so much like old partners sharing a silent joke. Minerva’s heart skipped a beat. Whatever had gone wrong between them, whatever prevented them from speaking their truth, she was certain that underneath it all, they still understood each other perfectly.
“Come,” Philippe said. “I will now show you the Yule cheese ripening chamber. You may look, but I cannot stress this enough: Do not touch anything!”
“Are we permitted to breathe?” Exandra mumbled under her breath.
The Yule chamber was much smaller, more intimate than the main caves.
Inside, twenty wheels of cheese rested on special shelves, each one marked with an embossed golden seal pressed into the wax, and a tiny jeweled crown affixed to the seal.
Even through the protective wax coating, Minerva could sense something different about these cheeses.
There was a glimmer of magic, a radiant warmth that had nothing to do with temperature.
Jasper leaned close, his voice earnest. “Mr. Valmont, what happens to the cheese if one of the families on the list... doesn’t want their cheese? Or can’t accept it?”
“Impossible,” Philippe said flatly. “No one refuses Valmont Yule Roquefort.”
“But theoretically—”
“It has never happened. It will never happen.” Philippe was already moving away. “Now, let us proceed to the tasting room where you may sample our standard Roquefort. This way.”
The group began to follow, but Bayard lingered behind, his bright eyes on those golden-sealed wheels. Something in his expression made Minerva pause, too.
But then Zephyr took her hand, pulling her away. “Coming along, my dear?”
“Yes,” she said, but she glanced back over her shoulder once more as she walked through the door.
Bayard had removed his backpack carrier, and was pausing to look inside.
“Just checking on Fred,” Bayard said. “He’s been napping for the entire tour. I should probably find him some water.”
Minerva’s stomach growled. She was getting peckish.
Bayard slipped into the small anteroom off the main tasting room.
The space served as a butler’s pantry. Bayard had noticed some workers getting their sample platters ready in here earlier.
The others were all in the tasting room.
Valmont was still talking to the group. He didn’t have a lot of time.
Bayard carefully lowered Fred’s backpack carrier onto the counter.
His hands shook as he unzipped it. Fred lay curled in his usual spot, oblivious to the value of the golden-sealed wheel nestled in the compartment below him.
“Sorry, old friend,” Bayard whispered. “This will just take a moment.”
He looked at the platter of regular cheese waiting to be brought out for the tour group to taste.
It held a standard wheel of Valmont Roquefort, perfectly presentable but nowhere near as precious as the Yule cheese.
With quick, efficient movements, Bayard removed the standard wheel.
He then unwrapped the Yule wheel, and placed it onto the tasting platter, carefully arranging it to look like it had always been there.
He then shoved both wrappers and the standard wheel back into the bottom compartment of his backpack.
Fred’s eyes opened wide and he stared accusatorily at Bayard.
“Shh,” Bayard pleaded. “I know. It stinks. But please, Fred, just—”
“QUACK!”
The sound echoed in the small space like a gunshot. Bayard froze, his heart in his throat, waiting for footsteps, for Philippe’s outraged voice, for discovery.
But Philippe was still lecturing in the other room, his nasal voice carrying through: “—and the crystallization of the tyrosine amino acids creates that pleasant granular texture, which the uneducated palate often mistakes for—”
No one was coming.
Fred looked up at Bayard with his beady eyes, and if a duck could be said to have expressions, the duck’s expression seemed almost knowing. Almost approving of his mischief.
“You understand, don’t you?” Bayard whispered, closing the backpack. “Some rules deserve to be broken.”
Fred quacked once more, softly this time, and tucked his head back under his wing.
Bayard slipped into the back of the tasting room, hoping that nobody had noticed those few extra moments he’d been gone.
Fred’s carrier pack was extra heavy against his shoulders.
The duck was asleep again, his soft snores barely audible, unconcerned that he’d just been an accessory to a cheese heist.
Bayard’s heart hammered at the thought of what he had just done.
What on earth had he been thinking? This was an actual theft, not a mere prank.
But he regretted nothing. The thought of Philippe’s dismissive tone, his snooty “worthiness list,” and the way the cheesemaker had looked at Exandra like she didn’t have any right to be there…
It had ignited something in Bayard. Quite possibly that same fierce thirst for social justice that had led him to join the Society for the Protection of Natural Magic to begin with.
He was nervous. But he also felt so alive.
More alive than he’d felt for years. And what was the worst thing that would happen if he got caught?
It was just one wheel of cheese. And he hadn’t taken it for himself.
He could always play the befuddled old professor card if caught.
What would Valmont do? Kick him out and ban him from ever coming back again?
Worth it.