She watches him stand, doesn't move away so far, the damp clothes held in one hand as she pulls it up, that chain that sits heavy on her throat. Hooked around her littlest finger, it slides as gravity pulls, clinking on the heavy set silver. Old in design, held up to the sun and his inspection. Not hidden from once, where she's stripped down to pants and an under shirt. "If I had done what a good wife should, I would be burning on his funeral pyre with him. Like the Goddess Sati."

But she smiles, it's something she had come to terms with. "But... I realised that I did not serve the world as a burning widow. After all, someone had to teach the English a lesson."

Teach Lord Hastings that there were still things worth fearing, and she would be all of them.