[ Through his underlying unease of the child's seeming lack of fear in the face of what is a very literal bogeyman, there is further nuance: perhaps even a form of a more pleasant surprise. Something.... refreshing, if he could allow himself to dwell on it. It seems more and more possible that she's truly never heard of him, of what he really is, that his dark legend has either not found its way to her or simply doesn't exist at all, in her world. But Edward cannot allow himself the luxury to be refreshed for very long. There are too many unknowns at play, here. And if the demon's countenance does uncharacteristically decide it wants her little soul..... well. There is nothing he can do (he thinks, assuming, of course, that his usual rules would apply here. There's some possibility that they would not.)
This is also assuming that she has a soul and that she is, in fact, actually a child. For the more she speaks, the more he is uncertain as to her nature or self at all. He eyes her calmly across his little conjured table, but with an intensity that tightens him at the edges, just-so, mouth held in a faint thing that is neither a smile nor a frown, absent of emotion, seeking and searching. His knuckles press through the thin material of his gloves, fingers slowly lifting from and then re-grasping the cane he keeps in his clutch. The gesture is reminiscent of a slow drumming against wood, of a cat's tail slowly curling in and out: waiting for something, patient but expectant. The demon so wants to learn more, to draw out each strand of knowledge from her buzzing head, desperate for it. Edward, as the unwilling proxy, feels a twitch at his jaw, forcing this all to go as peacefully (and properly!) as possible.
For now— he stores the information the girl gives him, even if each answer only begets far more questions. There is time for them; he must give as much as he takes, and so he'll tip his head forwards to the back-and-forth questioning, as though in a soft nod. ]
You do not know at all of me? Of Edward Mordrake's dark tale? Most of the freakish and the damned do, though I may only exist within their hearts as a whisper on dark nights, a story passed to-and-fro by giggling, nervous children and the shuddering superstitious. When they discover how real and true I am, it is too late.
[ He concludes ominously, and a little theatrically. After a brief pause, he asks anew, a glint in the icy blue of his eye— ] Tell me, Miss Manx, have you ever heard of the Two-Faced Prince?
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This is also assuming that she has a soul and that she is, in fact, actually a child. For the more she speaks, the more he is uncertain as to her nature or self at all. He eyes her calmly across his little conjured table, but with an intensity that tightens him at the edges, just-so, mouth held in a faint thing that is neither a smile nor a frown, absent of emotion, seeking and searching. His knuckles press through the thin material of his gloves, fingers slowly lifting from and then re-grasping the cane he keeps in his clutch. The gesture is reminiscent of a slow drumming against wood, of a cat's tail slowly curling in and out: waiting for something, patient but expectant. The demon so wants to learn more, to draw out each strand of knowledge from her buzzing head, desperate for it. Edward, as the unwilling proxy, feels a twitch at his jaw, forcing this all to go as peacefully (and properly!) as possible.
For now— he stores the information the girl gives him, even if each answer only begets far more questions. There is time for them; he must give as much as he takes, and so he'll tip his head forwards to the back-and-forth questioning, as though in a soft nod. ]
You do not know at all of me? Of Edward Mordrake's dark tale? Most of the freakish and the damned do, though I may only exist within their hearts as a whisper on dark nights, a story passed to-and-fro by giggling, nervous children and the shuddering superstitious. When they discover how real and true I am, it is too late.
[ He concludes ominously, and a little theatrically. After a brief pause, he asks anew, a glint in the icy blue of his eye— ] Tell me, Miss Manx, have you ever heard of the Two-Faced Prince?