“Did you ever ask someone to stand and deliver?”
“I’ll just say this,” said Magnus. “I look dashing in a tasteful mask and a large hat.”
Edmund laughed again—he had an easy and delighted laugh, like a child. His gaze was roving all over the room, from the ceiling—constructed to look as if they stood in a vast stone barrel—to the chandelier dripping glittering jewels like a duchess; to the green baize-covered tables that clustered on the right side of the room, where men were playing cards and losing fortunes.
Edmund’s quality of bright wonder and surprise made him seem younger than he was; it lent a fragile air to his beauty. Magnus did not wonder why he, one of the Nephilim, was not warier of a Downworlder. He doubted Edmund Herondale was wary of anything in life. He was eager to be entertained, ready to be thrilled, essentially trusting of the world.
Edmund pointed to where two men stood, one making an entry in a large book with a defiant flourish of his pen.
“What’s afoot there?”
“I presume they are recording a wager. There is a betting book here in White’s that is quite celebrated. All sorts of bets are taken—whether a gentleman could manage to ravish a lady in a balloon a thousand feet off the ground, whether a man could live underwater for a day.”
Magnus found them a pair of chairs near a fire, and made a gesture indicating that he and his companion were sorely in need of a drink. Their thirst was supplied the next instant. There were advantages to a truly excellent gentlemen’s club.
“Do you think one could?” Edmund inquired. “Not live underwater; I know mundanes cannot. The other thing.”
“My experiences in a balloon with a lady were not very pleasant,” Magnus said, wincing at the memory. Queen Marie Antoinette had been an exciting but not comfortable traveling companion. “I would be disinclined to indulge in carnal delights in a balloon with a lady or a gentleman. No matter how delightful they were.”
Edmund Herondale did not seem in the least surprised by the mention of a gentleman in Magnus’s romantic speculations.
“It would be a lady in the balloon for me,” he said.
“Ah,” said Magnus, who had suspected as much.
“But I am always flattered to be admired,” said Edmund, with an engaging grin. “And I am always admired.”
He said it with that easy smile and another golden flutter of eyelashes, in the same way he had wound Amalia Morgenstern around his finger. It was clear he knew he was outrageous, and he expected people to like it. Magnus suspected they all did.
“Ah, well,” Magnus said, giving up the matter gracefully. “Any particular lady?”
“I am not perfectly certain I believe in marriage. Why have just one bonbon when you can have the box?”
Magnus raised his eyebrows and took a swallow of his excellent brandy. The young man had a way with words and the na?ve delight of someone who had never had his heart broken.
“No one’s ever really hurt you, have they?” said Magnus, who saw no point in beating about the bush.
Edmund looked alarmed. “Why, are you about to?”
“With all those whips on your person? Hardly. I merely meant that you seem like someone who has never had his heart broken.”
“I lost my parents as a child,” said Edmund candidly. “But rare is the Shadowhunter with an intact family. I was taken in by the Fairchilds and raised in the Institute. Its halls have ever been my home. And if you mean love, then no, my heart has never been broken. Nor do I foresee that it will be.”
“Don’t you believe in love?”
“Love, marriage, the whole business is extremely overrated. For instance, this chap I know called Benedict Lightwood recently got leg-shackled, and the affair is hideous—”
“Your friends moving forward into a different era of their lives can be difficult,” Magnus said sympathetically.
Edmund made a face. “Benedict is not my friend. It’s the poor young lady I feel sorry for. The man is peculiar in his habits, if you see what I’m trying to say.”
“I don’t,” Magnus said flatly.
“Bit of a deviant, is what I’m getting at.”
Magnus regarded him with a cold air.
“Bad News Benedict, we call him,” said Edmund. “Mostly due to his habit of consorting with demons. The more tentacles, the better, if you catch my meaning.”
“Oh,” Magnus said, enlightened. “I know who you mean. I have a friend from whom he bought some most unusual woodcuts. Also a couple of engravings. Said friend is simply an honest tradesman, and I have never bought anything from him myself, mind you.”
“Also Benedict Lightworm. And Bestial Benedict,” Edmund continued bitterly. “But he sneaks about while the rest of us get up to honest larks, and the Clave all think that he’s superlatively well behaved. Poor Barbara. I’m afraid she acted hastily because of her broken heart.”