She will catch her death of cold. Magni’s mouth is caught in a slight frown, concern watching her brow as her bride, her wife, kneels before her. Carefully, Magni takes the blade in one hand, and her other catches her wife’s own. The gesture is a little stiff, as though she fears it is a presumption. Rather than pulling Rani up, she drops to one knee.

“You honour me,” she says very softly, voice rasping and quiet, roughened by past injury to her throat. Before she stands up, Magni unclasps her cloak, fur-lined, and slides it from her shoulders. As she has been gifted with the blade, so she brings the cloak around her wife's shoulders, clasping it. Better not to be frozen through, and she will have to ensure that her lady and her ladies in waiting are properly supplied with items warm enough to keep them safe in the harsh weather.

Magni dips her head, and takes Rani's hand again before she stands, hoping that Rani will stand as well. Ceremony would be daft if her wife froze to death amongst all the flourish and welcomes. Magni nods to one of her servants, and he bows, moving towards the house.

“Welcome to Talonhold,” she adds stiffly, all too aware of the assessing eyes and the inevitable judgments being made, and wanting to spare both of them the scrutiny. Welcomes and warmth and talk of home and being comfortable and everything else that would be appropriate feel too much and too silly.