It occurs her in that all too paranoid way that the others cannot be far from this closed room and these walls are not so thick - that they will hear this argument when it piques. Neither of their tempers are their best traits. How well they suit, she thinks grimly, when they're growling like dogs with teeth in each other's throats. ( Refusing to let go, she wonders because they are too stubborn, or because neither of them knows how. )

"Of course I'm afraid." It's barked, snapped, pushing up on the bed, bedraggled still, dressed down to where she's got the blanket tucked under arm to keep herself covered. Maybe that's for the best. "But you are the one that doesn't want to hear so much as a word of truth, you're too busy in pretending that you feel nothing that you can't handle so much as a breath of my death."

Which would be -- sweet, if it wasn't irritating her, she can't afford to be precious, not about the black water.