"A few years," follows the face she pulls at singular, which Wren can take for the agreement it is; she remembers the Outsider only a little, but vividly. Of the group, he and Wren are the only ones to whom she might put name to face, or...even reliably recall the face, offhand. It'd have been less than that in the time passed if not for Thranduil's attachment, or the stark way a handful of careless words had undone her uncle.

She bites off the end of her thread and sets the shirt aside, moves onto the next thing in her mending pile; threads her needle anew and takes a drink of her tea. It must be familiar-- she doesn't blink at the awful taste.

"In the fashion of his people," a bit more drolly. "Whoever they are."

Yes, this is probably about how people might've envisioned Gwenaëlle as a wife.

A beat, then;

"My uncle seems in better spirits." Eyyyyyy.