The first night in the basement wasn't spent sleeping, but whispering to each other about everything they'd been through. By the time the second day began, signified only by a thin, grey sliver of light that bled through a high, barred slit near the ceiling, the dampness had settled into Verona's joints like lead.
The morning started with the sound of the iron slot in the door sliding open. A tray was pushed through, scraping harshly against the stone. On it sat two bowls of a grey, unidentifiable pottage and a single pitcher of water. The smell was cloying, sweet in a way that food should never be, with a faint, metallic undertone that made Verona's stomach churn.
"Don't touch it," Liera whispered, her voice urgent as she pulled Verona back from the tray.
"I wasn't planning on it," Verona replied, staring at the tray with deep suspicion.
Liera continued, "God knows what he could put in it."
Verona pushed the tray back toward the door with the toe of her boot.
