It seemed there was no stopping Elaine, who eagerly began paging through the braille cookbook. She soon settled on a vanilla-spiced pear cake for her experiment, but Annabelle wanted nothing to do with it. Elaine, however, would not relent.

“I’ll go to the grocer’s even if you won’t accompany me,” Elaine said, reaching for her coin purse and preparing to leave. It would be impossible to relax knowing Elaine was out fumbling through the shop on her own.

“I’ll go,” Annabelle grumbled, and an hour later, they had all the ingredients necessary to begin baking.

Annabelle measured the dry ingredients, while Elaine prepared the papery thin slices of pears, chattering the entire time. When had her sister become so fascinated with cooking? She rattled on about how the French used a special blend of wheat in their world-famous crusty bread, and about how wine could be used to improve mustard recipes. Elaine had never shown much interest in cooking back in Kansas. Their mother’s culinary skills had been limited to teaching them how to light a stove and use salt and pepper.

“Where did you learn all this?” Annabelle finally asked.

“At the library, of course. They have all kinds of books about cooking and culinary history.”

Finally it was time to blend the vanilla into each bowl of batter. Gray’s vanilla wafted through the entire kitchen as they poured it, while the bowl with the fake vanilla seemed just as nice. They each sampled the batter.

“They taste the same,” Annabelle said, and Elaine agreed. Since losing her eyesight, Elaine had developed a keener sense of taste and smell, but even she couldn’t tell the difference between the two batters. It was a little disappointing.

After putting both cakes into the oven, Annabelle prepared the vanilla glazes while Elaine kept sharing food lore she’d heard or read while working at the library. It was annoying. Each time Elaine started talking about the difference between sweet and smoky paprika, or techniques for making vinegar, it made Annabelle think of Gray, and it was torture.

At last the cakes had been baked, cooled, and were ready for the coating of vanilla glaze. By now the entire apartment smelled divine. Annabelle laid a slice of each cake on a plate and served them to Elaine, giving no indication which slice had the real vanilla and which the fake.

“Can you tell the difference?” she asked.

Elaine sampled the real vanilla cake first. Her eyes closed in ecstasy, and she moaned. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Do we have enough pears for another cake? I’d like to bake another and take it to the library. This must be shared!”

Annabelle laughed. “Try the other cake.” It would probably be just as good. Gray could be such a snob, with an overly refined palate only rich people could indulge. Normal, red-blooded Americans probably couldn’t taste the difference.