Eileen wasn't a voyeur per se - all right, perhaps she was, in a sense of enjoying every kink twice, - but, nonetheless, she held high appreciation in watching a hard-working bloke who knew how to apply his skills and magic for the right cause.
It was all the better if she could sip her mead and put her feet up while she was into the show.
Clever lad.
Loki poked and prodded this way and that at the makeshift design of this... wooden womb substitute. Mind the hymen, love, a thought rose to her mind as he reached where No Lad Had Gone Before (at least with this particular womb) and popped the lid off. She smirked.
Clever, clever lad.
Eileen refused to call the keg a cradle, although it could be charmed to rock gently if needed. Cradle implied motherhood and all the soppy, sickening rituals that went along with it, like naming the sprogs and showing them off and cooing over them to everyone who might listen.
Naming this particular sprog would leave a trace and a paper trail and too much of a chance someone came a-knocking on Eileen's door. Someone who had both: curiosity to ponder the ways of how an infant copy of a wanted man might be used against said man, and no respect for proper payment. Eileen knew such qualities all too well, after all, she possessed them both herself.
At some point of Loki's prodding, he set off a magical alarm and a house-elf came rushing through the doorway, grilling fork menacingly thrusting forward like a pitchfork. The creature grabbed a spare keg lid by the door for a shield and would have probably tried charging forth, but Eileen stopped it with a stare and sent it away.
The elf stumbled out, droopy-eared, fork dragging. But the keg lid remained, dry and dull, rolling on the ground, propped up by its plain handle, like a long abandoned spinning top.