Page 4 of Holiday Cheese and Capers
Minerva lifted her sample to her nose. The aroma was complex. It smelled nutty, slightly sweet, and had an earthy undertone that could only be attributed to the caves and time.
“This particular wheel is eight months old,” Bayard continued. “You’ll notice the firm, vaguely granular texture, the way it melts on your tongue. This is what makes proper Yule fondue possible. It must have an even melt, and a depth of flavor and the perfect consistency to hold the kirsch and wine without separating.”
Minerva took a bite. Even plain, the cheese was extraordinary. It tasted rich but not overwhelming, with a long, savory finish.
“Magnificent,” Zephyr murmured beside her, already reaching for his second piece. “Absolutely magnificent.”
“Without this cheese,” Bayard said, his voice taking on a more serious note, “hundreds of communities would lose a central part of their Yule celebrations. The tradition of gathering around the fondue pot, the sharing of warmth and sustenance in thedarkest time of year, all depends on cheesemakers maintaining their cultures and their craft.”
Fred gave a solemn quack as if emphasizing the point for Bayard.
“Over the next fortnight, we’ll visit seven fromageries, each producing a cheese essential to Yule traditions. You’ll learn about different cultures, aging processes, and the magic that protects these ancient food ways. And, of course, you’ll taste some of the finest cheese in the magical world.”
More enthusiastic applause. Minerva noticed Wren writing rapidly, a small smile on her face. Jasper, who’d been tasked with refilling champagne flutes, somehow managed to keep drifting toward her table more frequently than the others.
“We depart in thirty minutes,” Bayard concluded. “Please enjoy the reception, ask me any questions you might have, and prepare for a journey you won’t soon forget.”
As the wizard stepped down from the podium, the deck beneath Minerva’s feet hummed and vibrated with magic.The Celestine Queenwas waking up, preparing to fly.
“To adventure,” Zephyr said, raising his champagne flute.
“To cheese,” Minerva replied, clinking her glass against his.
“To both,” he agreed. “And to starting our own traditions, my dear.”
She leaned against his shoulder, watching the lights of Geneva begin to twinkle in the gathering dusk. Somewhere below, a crew member called out preparations for departure. The Yule tree’s ornaments chimed more urgently, as if excited for the journey.
This was going to be a wonderful trip.
The sun had dippedbelow the horizon, and the first stars were emerging when a crew member’s voice rang out across the deck: “All ashore that’s going ashore! The gangplank is rising! All passengers should be aboard!”
Minerva watched with interest as two crew members moved to the boarding ramp, their wands already raised to begin the levitation spell that would retract it.The Celestine Queenhummed more insistently beneath her feet, eager to depart.
“WAIT!”
The shout came from the dock below, followed by the thunder of running footsteps.
Every passenger turned to look. Even the servers paused mid-pour.
A figure sprinted toward the gangplank. The dark-skinned woman was impossibly tall, with purple and gray hair streaming behind her like a flag. She wore a trim gray tracksuit that somehow managed to look elegant on her imposing frame, and she moved with surprising grace and agility despite her massive size and the heavy-looking pack on her shoulders.
“Hold the plank!” she shouted, her commanding British voice carrying effortlessly across the water.
The crew members exchanged glances, uncertain.
Then came a loud crash from the reception area.
Minerva turned to see Bayard standing frozen at his table, his champagne flute shattered at his feet, stars fizzling out as the golden liquid spread across the deck. His face had gone bright pink beneath his white hair, his bushy eyebrows elevated nearly to his hairline.
Fred, however, had no such paralysis. The duck launched himself from his cushioned stool, flapped to the floor with an excited “QUACK!” and waddled out the open door, full speed toward the gangplank, wings still beating.
“Fred, wait!” Bayard started, but his protests went unheeded.
The purple-haired woman leapt onto the gangplank just as the crew began lowering it again. She bounded up the ramp with athletic ease, and the moment she reached the deck, Fred threw himself at her feet, quacking ecstatically and doing a little spinning dance.
“Well, hello, my darling boy,” the woman said, and her entire demeanor softened as she crouched down—quite a long way down—to scoop up the handsome duck. Her voice, which had been so commanding and gruff at first, turned gentle and warm. “Did you miss me, Freddy-weddykins? Of course you did! Such a good, sweet boy.”
Fred nuzzled into her neck, making contented sounds.
