"From my lord's cellar," she says, primly, in response to his approval; it's unlikely that even his cursory acquaintance with her would have missed a husband, so presumably she means her father. It's an impersonal, distancing way to speak of him, and given the fraught, often strained nature of their relationship - that's no accident.

But he does have excellent taste in wines. And in elves, she thinks sourly, watching the top of the bottle drop to the grass, the play of light on the blade and the glass (and his hair). He would probably be charmed, so she decides not to be; accepts the glass with all the dignity of a little queen holding court, biting the inside of her lip against the reflex to smile back. Her gaze lingers a few moments on the knife's opalescent inlay - the most striking part of the entire display, drawing her eye and holding it - before dropping to the wine, fingers curling around the stem to quell the temptation to reach out and touch it.

(You can't just touch everything you see if it interests you. The lesson did stick, for as many times as she had to hear it first.)

She doesn't smile, saying, "Well, it serves its purpose all the same, I'm sure," in that same neatly pulled in tone. She does retrieve the second glass from where it had been unseen in the basket, and set it down where he might fill it for himself.

If he wanted. Whatever. She doesn't care.