[At the call of a voice, Jaskier's head hits the shelf above him, the thump sending a few small handspades clattering to the ground of his toolshed. There's a curse (which, of course, is a loud "fuck!" and, after a moment of further noises, he peeks his head out of the little shed that is the only building in his domain, looking as perfect as if he walked out onto a ballroom floor. The golden bird on top opens one eye from where its head is tucked under a wing, resituates itself, and goes back to sleep.]

Julie! My dear, to what do I owe such pleasure? Excuse me that I only have the one door, and it's a bit rickety. [He pats the shed, walking up to meet her with a tight embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

He has, of course, already zeroed in on the wine. He knows well that it's his. Well. Hers. Hers he left for her. He's happy for company -- all he'd had planned was an afternoon plucking dead leaves from the grapes and perhaps planting a potato, for old time's sake -- but it is the first time anyone has brought back his wine.] I can only hope you came to either wax poetically about the taste, not to tell me something's wrong with it. Too sweet? I wasn't sure, you know, since you had those cocktails. Very lovely, of course, as you remember, but I imagined you must be more inclined towards that side of the tongue, so to speak --

[Please stop him, he could go on for an hour about cocktails.]