She takes his hand in hers, opens the door, and leads him into the house.
There's something about the way she steps over the threshold that has a weight to it. It's—mostly?—just in her body language, a sense of care and attention and thoughtful purpose, but it makes entering the house feel momentous in a way it didn't before.
"I am Euphrosyne Blake, daughter of Ishtar Blake, daughter of Nike Blake," she calls into the darkness of the foyer. A brilliant white glow peeks through the fingers of her left hand, which she's holding closed against her chest. In a grave and dignified motion, she sweeps her arm forward and opens her hand to release the fairy light, which floats forward to cast its light on the pillars and the curved steps and the yawning entrances of the library and dining room beyond them.
"Wake for me," she says firmly.
There's a beat of silence, and then the lights flicker to life, warm and welcoming. Rosy's fairy light returns to her hand to be reabsorbed.
"This is John," she adds, squeezing his hand. "Treat him as my betrothed." The lights ripple in acknowledgment. "Make up the master suite for us, and let us know when you have dinner on the table." Another ripple. "I will be thinking about possible renovations over the coming weeks, but before I decide on anything I want to see you at your best." The ripple this time somehow manages to seem pleased. Rosy nods regally.