It's rather too tempting to bite back on that look - debate is no doubt up whether she's ever been truly polite or friendly. But now, there under her fingers as they touch against each other is the rough grain wood that she has cut back, yet to be sanded. Her eyes sliding behind her veils from Wren as she moves in, Araceli who enters afterwards. Her voice withering, low. Flicking her up and down from behind it with a short sharp gaze.

"Commander, is that all for me?" It's not a good joke, to anyone who knows the truth of it, but oh how she finds it amusing. But whilst she is having this grand entertainment on her own behalf: "As long as you don't make me repeat myself, I am sure we can be quite quick." She laughs, shoulders hunching, body twisting over it. A laugh that turns to a wretched, hacking cough but a moment later. Sick, she must be catching something - of course she would be. As if this could be more unpleasant. No wonder Galahad looked the way he had, and she had not even borne his torture. Every wound seemed intent on repeating itself for the time it was denied, it felt like.