She drops the severed arm in his lap in favor of dropping her head into her own lap, hands in her hair as she tries to get a grip on herself and this situation. It doesn't make sense, shouldn't be possible, yet ever fiber of her being is telling her to listen to her maker, that he wouldn't lie to her, that his word is truth even when it seems like nothing more than an elaborate lie.
Even when he apparently has no idea who she is, and that hurts more than it should. More than she expected anything to.
"Willa," she answers after a moment, lifting her head back up and wiping away the bloody tears from her face. God, she hates crying while dead. It's so messy and gross and all you succeed in doing is smearing blood all over your face when you try and wipe the tears away with your hands. She will never complain about human tears having made her mascara run again. "Willa Burrell. You're my maker."