Where I'm from, someone gives you a bottle of wine, you share it with 'em.

[ She gazes down the neat rows of grape vines, green and lush, rolling over hills. If she never sees a wheat or corn field again, it would be just fine with her.

But he does earn himself a look at that, that his family owned a vineyard, and apparently only summered there. She is at first surprised, an expression which then quickly and visibly fades to a sort of sardonic understanding. He'd mentioned once that he had gone to university, hadn't he? Knowing what she knows now about his world, how uncommon that would be, it all suddenly clicks into place.

Of course he was from a rich family, really rich. Who else could possibly afford to do shit like write limericks for a career? Real people, people like Julie, don't get to follow their passions in life -- that's only for people from families who can prop them up while they pursue their fantasies. People who are allowed to fail because they have a safety net. The people that she had jealously hated from afar as she read their stories in glossy magazines and internet blogs, ones who weren't born locked into tiny, shitty lives they would never be able to claw out of.

And it definitely explains his wardrobe, compared to Geralt and Ciri.

She chuckles and shakes her head a little, holds up the bottle to him. ]

You got anywhere you like to sit in this place? You can tell me all about how a vineyard can be loud.