Persephone's response is a long, low sort of laugh as she looks to the girl standing before her. After so long spent underground, she can see when a person has a bit o'the world of death on them. With Letha it shines, but she also knows that the girl ain't divine and it ain't the acrid heat of Hadestown that clings to her skin--it ain't the specters of the dead workers either. It's a different bit of death, but the decay of it ain't something that she'd mistake for anything else.

"'Gardening magic,'" the words are echoed back with a wicked sort of grin and coupled with a slow roll of the woman's shoulder. "Goddess of the Spring, guess you could call it the same sort of thing, sister." There's a little movement of her finger, conducting a bit of a symphony as that divine magic brushes against Letha's hair, forming a black rose stripped of it's thorns into the mess of dark there, anchoring itself with that deep green stem so that it wouldn't just fall out, but not so much that it would be difficult to remove when the time came. "'m Persephone." Her name is expected to be known, because other people had known it before, and certainly everyone back home had known it, even if they'd given her other ones.