Chapter 25 Pride and Parmesan
PRIDE AND PARMESAN
The monastery-turned-creamery sat perched in the rolling hills of the Parma countryside, its ancient stone walls glowing peachy gold in the afternoon sun. It was an architectural treasure, all arched doorways and terra-cotta roofs with a bell tower that still cheerfully chimed out the hours.
A robed figure emerged from the main building—an actual monk, elderly and serene, with a kindly wrinkled face and gnarled, calloused hands.
“Welcome, welcome,” he greeted them in accented English. “I am Brother Tomasso. We are so honored to host you for your final stop on this remarkable journey.”
“Brother Tomasso,” Bayard greeted him warmly. “Thank you for accommodating us.”
As the group gathered, Minerva noticed several passengers looking around nervously, whispering to each other.
“Do you think this is where the final heist will go down?” someone murmured.
“I don’t know. The Culture Vulture has been quiet since Switzerland,” another passenger replied.
“Right. So surely they’ll strike at the final stop?” the first passenger argued.
“I heard they’re only targeting the most precious and rare Yule cheeses,” a third person added, raising her eyebrows. She lowered her voice to a near whisper, “and you know how sacred Parmesan is here.”
Brother Tomasso looked puzzled. “Strike? Is something wrong?”
Bayard and Exandra exchanged a worried glance.
“Perhaps,” Bayard said, “we should address a small matter before we begin the tour.”
He moved to the front of the group, Exandra beside him.
“We have an announcement to make,” Bayard said. “Over the past two weeks, we’ve been hearing rumors about incidents occurring at various fromageries. Rumors of sabotage, threats to production. I want you all to know that you don’t need to worry. The case has been definitively resolved.”
A collective gasp rose from the group. Brother Tomasso held a hand to his chest.
“What does that even mean?” one of the passengers asked.
“The perpetrator has been apprehended,” Exandra added, her voice firm and official. “There is no longer any threat to any of the facilities we’ve visited or to Yule cheese production as a whole.”
“Wait. Are you saying you caught the Culture Vulture?” Wren asked, her camera already up.
“The situation has been... handled,” Bayard said carefully. “You can all enjoy the rest of the tour without any concerns about sabotage or danger.”
But instead of relief, a wave of vague disappointment rippled through the group.
“Oh, okay then…” someone said. “That’s—good, I suppose?”
“I was rather hoping for one more final incident,” another passenger admitted. “Not that I want anyone to get hurt, of course, but the mystery was exciting.”
“Most exciting part of the cruise, honestly,” a third person agreed. “I mean, I do love cheese, but there’s only so many mold cultures that I can keep straight in my head.”
“I’m lactose intolerant and I was still having a blast on this cruise!” announced another passenger.
Minerva watched Bayard and Exandra’s faces carefully. They were both clearly gobsmacked by the passengers’ reactions, and unsure what to say.
“Well,” Brother Tomasso said, diplomatically ignoring the group’s disappointment, “perhaps we can still provide you all with some excitement about the magnificence of our sacred Parmesano? Come, let me show you something truly special.”
Brother Tomasso led them through the monastery’s original corridors, past thick stone walls that had stood for nine hundred years, and into the monk’s aging caves.
They smelled the Parmesan wheels before they saw them.
The scent was rich, complex, slightly sweet.
Then they rounded the corner and gasped.
The stacked shelves stretched three stories up to the vaulted ceiling where fans circulated and the air.
It was the most cheese any of them had seen in one place on the entire tour.
There had to be at least a thousand wheels of Parmigiano-Reggiano, aging on the wooden shelves.
Each one was marked with the official consortium stamp.
“Those wheels are larger than the tires on my motorbike,” Wren whispered to Jasper. “I wonder what they weigh?”
“These wheels,” Brother Tomasso explained, “weigh approximately eighty-five pounds each. They must age for a minimum of twelve months, but our Yule wheels age for thirty-six months. Three full years of patient waiting, of extra accumulated blessings.”
If anyone noticed that the monk refrained from using the word “magic,” they did not mention it.
Next Brother Tomasso led them to a special chamber where a single wheel sat on a raised platform, marked with gold leaf and runes.
“This is one of our Yule wheels for the current Yule season,” he said reverently.
“Made from the milk of our monastery cows, aged for exactly three years to the day, and ready to be broken open tonight for the first time. The first grating of a newly cracked wheel of our special Yule Parmigiano-Reggiano is called ‘the angel’s snow’.
When it is served over the feast on the Yule table, it brings blessings of abundance to all for the coming year. ”
“How do you know when it’s ready?” Jasper asked.
“We know by the date, but we also must listen,” Brother Tomasso said simply.
He picked up a small silver hammer and tapped the wheel in various places.
Each spot produced a different tone. It was a deep, resonant sound.
“When the cheese sings in harmony, when all the notes align, we know it has aged to perfection. It is ready.”
“So, um… Does that mean we are going to get to try some Parmesan?” One of the passengers asked tentatively. “I’m not sure I recognize that tune.”
“The cheese is ready. And the breaking ceremony will happen this evening,” Brother Tomasso continued, “but first, we must move this wheel to the preparation room. Usually we wait for the younger monks, but—” He looked at the massive wheel. “If anyone feels moved to help?”
Exandra stepped forward, arm raised. “I can carry it.”
Brother Tomasso looked doubtful. “Signora, it weighs—”
She lifted the wheel as if it weighed nothing, hoisting it onto her shoulder with a grin.“Show me the way!”
The group gasped at her show of strength and Brother Tomasso’s eyes went wide.
“Or perhaps you do not need help,” he said, impressed. “It seems you are rather blessed as well. This way, please, Signora.”
As Exandra carried the enormous wheel through the monastery, Bayard watched her with undisguised admiration. This was Exandra fully herself—strong, confident, no longer hiding, attempting to make herself smaller, or holding back.
She caught his eye and smiled back at him.
They saw the copper vats where the cheese was started, watched the salting process, learned about the consortium’s strict regulations. It was fascinating, however, that as they completed the tour, all the passengers kept making mildly disappointed comments.
“It’s all very interesting, learning about the cheese,” one woman said to her companion, “but I keep thinking how much more exciting this monastery would have been with one more mystery to solve. I miss the Culture Vulture.”
“I know what you mean,” her friend agreed. “The Culture Vulture added so much sizzle to the journey. Made us all feel like we were part of something big.”
“I’d honestly pay extra for a cruise like this with built-in mysteries,” a man added. “You know, where we get to play detective. Like a murder mystery dinner, but with cheese.”
Bayard and Exandra were walking just ahead of this group. Minerva saw them both stop walking at exactly the same moment.
They turned to stare at each other, and something electric passed between them.
Inspiration.
Excitement.
Hope.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Bayard asked quietly.
“I think so,” Exandra breathed. “Mystery cruises? With fake sabotage? Puzzles to solve? Guests playing detective?”
“You could create the mysteries! Design the scenarios! You know all about conducting investigations.”
“And you could still teach the cheese education. Provide the expert knowledge, but toss in an investigatory twist. We’d be perfect—”
“Partners,” Bayard finished. “Perfect partners. Working together.”
“You wouldn’t have to give up the cruise line,” Exandra said, the words tumbling out faster now.
“I could join you immediately. I wouldn’t even have to quit the Society right away.
I have enough leave saved up to spend several years away.
Oh, Bay! We should pitch this idea to the cruise company this afternoon!
Mystery-themed cruises. They’re popular with Ordinary folk—why not magical people, too? ”
“You’d have to leave the Society eventually.”
“I think I’m okay with that,” she said, and seemed surprised by her own certainty.
“Bay, I’m tired. I’m so tired of fighting and investigating real crimes and seeing the worst of people.
But this—” She gestured around them. “Creating mysteries for fun? Giving people adventure without real danger? Working with you every day?” She laughed.
“That doesn’t sound like giving anything up.
That sounds like I’m getting to have everything I want. ”
“It sounds like winning,” Bayard squeezed her hand. Then he lifted it to his lips and kissed it. He didn’t care who saw.
They stood in the corridor, other passengers flowing around them, and just stared at each other.
“Are we crazy?” Bayard asked.
“Completely insane, I think.” Exandra giggled.
“We’ll need to design the whole program from scratch.” Bayard tugged thoughtfully at his eyebrow.
“We’ll be working together. Every day. All the time,” Exandra noted.
“Might drive each other mad.” Bayard bit a lip worriedly.
“Almost certainly will.” Exandra giggled.
They smiled at each other, and this time when their hands found each other, they didn’t let go.
“Let’s do it,” Bayard said.
“I’m in,” Exandra agreed.