Torment

LACRIMOSA

Homer found his daughter playing the piano magnificently in the library of the Realondas. The hunt was not that bad especially that Edgar and most of the people he spent his time with nearly stumbled down from their horses. "Dad, how's the hunt? I heard you got the boar." For a while he only stared at his daughter who moved so flawlessly like Rosalie. From afar if he did not know she was Jane, he would have suspected her as Rosalie. There was no denying that even though despite upon her bluntness and the way his daughter held herself, there would always be a part of Rosalie marked on some of her gestures. Homer never played the piano. Well, he did but not as good as Rosalie. And every time he saw his daughter play the instrument, how her fingers intricately splayed its keys, and how the music linger in the air he could almost imagine Rosalie.

"Yes Jane, I did." Instantly, his daughter creased her forehead and glanced at his direction. Homer knew how much she did not like other people addressing her using her first name. But that was the way he wanted her to be called. He knew even Rosalie wished their daughter to be called as Jane. Even only in name, he thought it was reasonable enough to give Rosalie that opportunity. That despite upon the fact that she did not know their daughter was still alive and breathing, at least the name Rosalie had given remained with them, alive and existing.

The last notes of Winter Wind echoed in the library. Jane stood up with a sigh. "I thought you might want some help to cook?" Homer smiled enigmatically and nodded. "Let's go, they might be waiting for us downstairs." He opened the door and let his daughter walk out first. Homer followed and placed one of his arms on her shoulder. In this case he could almost feel as if they were back in Sicily. Normal, peaceful.

"What are you going to cook?" If there was one thing he and his daughter had in common, it was definitely their tastes for food. Homer and Jane loved cooking. Food had always been part of Homer's elegance and unimaginable sophistication. He considered his meals as a work of art. Jane definitely inherited this perspective from him. As a man who had been deprived of something to eat and who had suffered from harrowing episodes of starvations, Homer promised himself that he would never ever eat something so terrible again. Homer worked hard to create something that would always fill his mouth and stomach. He would always make sure that no food would be wasted. Every piece served on the plate would be respected. This motto had been evident from his dinner parties. Not only he was famous for being a man of power and art and classical music, Homer prepared and served his food himself through the help of some of his trusted European chefs. "Wild Boar Ragu."

On their way downstairs Homer stopped. "Is there something wrong?" Jane looked at him but he immediately shook his head. He thought he felt someone's presence few metres away from them. "Nothing let's go."

***

In the kitchen Serena presented them with some of their servants and as usual, in her most seductive manner. "We can't wait Homer. We're all starving." She sighed and Jane could only look at her indignantly. "Don't worry Ma'ma and I will set up our dining table. I know how much you love your table being so elegant."

"Of course."

"If you need some servants to help you especially our chefs just give them a call."

"This isn't that much but thank you for the offer. I think my daughter and I can manage."

"Well, then I should leave you two. Enjoy cooking." Serena gave one last smile before she finally left them alone in the kitchen.

His daughter faced him and handed him an apron. "Shall we start?"

"Certainly." Homer first turned around to turn the recorder and play some music. It was not peculiar for them to cook as they listen to operas. Homer had always loved music. For him food was always better when accompanied with something classical and authentic. "L'amour est un oiseau rebelle" started playing and Jane and Homer began to gather their ingredients.