The taste of the cake is so pure and good that for one dreamy moment nothing else matters. The clinging dregs of her self-disgust are abruptly banished to the far margins of herself, because it feels like a fucking age since she last ate, and it was nothing as good as this. Maybe it's purely because she's hurt and half-starved that it seems as blissful as it does, more maybe it's the cheap, plain food she'd been given all her life up until now. It’s irrelevant; for a moment she just gives in to it, allows herself to be handfed like some fucking dog as her body pushes her to act on instinct and self-preservation alone. It's so good she could fucking cry (though she doesn't, a fact she'll be glad of later), and even Lenore's condescending good girl can't touch her at the moment.

It's good, but not enough-- just enough to dull the sharpest edges of her hunger. Enough that when she smells the tantalising contents of the flask that she knows she's going to do as she's told and drink it regardless of the consequences. If it's poisoned then fuck it all to hell; it's not the worst way one could go.

Her lips part as requested, and when the liquid within hits her tongue she could swear it's ambrosia of the Gods. It soothes the dry, thick feeling in her throat, and it's all she can do to prevent herself moaning in aching relief.