Gideon only stares at her over a mouthful of food as her captor insists she's only young-- at nineteen, two hundred sounds positively ancient. And yet here she is, sitting before her with her voluptuous breasts and her smooth white skin, when she'd seen fifty-year-olds in Drearburh who looked little better than withered skeletons. She ignores the extended hand with, perhaps, a degree of predictability. Her eyes slide over it though, the pale and slender fingers, remembers the soft, cool press of the palm when it had briefly cupped her face. She kinda wants to touch it, to see how it would feel in her broader hand. It's for this reason - rather than revulsion or deliberate insult - that she feigns indifference and focuses on her food. It's fucking weird, isn't it? To crave the physical attention of someone who has her locked up in a cage?

Lenore deals the cards just as she's finishing her meal - more swiftly than before, and with less care now she's less afraid of throwing up - and she pushes the tray aside to give them more room to play. She copies her captor, picking up the hand that she's been dealt and surveying it impassively.

"You know," she says as she does this, "two hundred is actually fucking ancient beyond all reason. Congratulations I guess, for not looking like a rotting old corpse."

Perhaps she just wants to dispel the thoughts of Lenore's hand in hers from her touch-starved mind.