She's up and sat cross-legged by the time Lenore makes her presence known. Both her face and her posture are composed, trying to convey the chilly dignity of someone who isn't collared and chained in a shitty little cell. The chilly dignity that the Kingdom of Drearburh always so highly prized, and she has therefore had a lifetime to learn how to mimic. It's only slightly marred by the hot glint of her eyes, by something fierce yet sullen lurking around the angles of her jaw. Her gaze flicks between Lenore to her offerings and then back again, restraining herself from snatching the food-- it's not going anywhere. She’s fairly sure of this.

"Who, me?" her tone is sardonic, but no longer completely furious, "Oh yeah, I'm good. Great actually. Not at all like slightly warmed up shit. Seriously, what kind of answer are you expecting from me?"

So she hasn't dropped the attitude...but she makes no sudden or violent move toward her captor either. She could reach her, now. Perhaps she could do some damage before a guard was alerted and they piled in here to beat her raw. Instead, she waits a moment before slowly extending an arm, clearly telegraphic her intent to draw the tray and it’s heavenly-scented contents closer to her.