The energy has calmed down after the necessary time spent on corpse-hiding, the ride back to the hotel, and the promise of direct access. (Lestat can't be blamed for his lack of cellphone when the one he was given didn't work as it should. Or didn't appear to. Certainly doesn't now, wherever it was abandoned in New Orleans.) He sits leaned forwards, his focus on the device.

"Bonsoir, mon cher," is as soft and dreamy as it always was, despite the amount of time it's been, despite the medium, despite Molloy's presence. Despite the book.

Or maybe a little bit because of Molloy's presence, because of the book. "Are we keeping you up?"