Her actions with the knife would have depended entirely on who stood on the other side of the door. Were it a thief in the night or a soldier come to take her away, perhaps she would have fought to protect herself. If it had been Anakin... Perhaps instinct would have led her down a very different path. But it had been Obi-Wan there, Obi-Wan who now enters the small house the size of her bedroom on Coruscant, and so she steps back into the kitchen and returns the knife to its place, her free hand clutching at the knit shawl around her shoulders, her shortened hair tucked beneath it.

"I'll make you something warm to drink," she tells him in a quiet voice sounding as tired as she feels. "It's nearly winter here." The air is crisp outside and there is frost on the windows of the kitchen, the warmth of the fire not quite reaching the glass -- she hadn't been able to build it as much tonight, her stock of firewood getting low.

Her basket of sewing is sat beside one of the two chairs by the fire, the bedroll still tied and propped against the wall. She intends a few hours more of work before giving in to exhaustion.