"I would like that."

Over the phone there is little sign of Louis, standing in front of a painting half-shrouded in sheets. Armand's selection, now sold, awaiting a crate.

When last he was in New York twisting alongside memories of Paris, shoulder by shoulder with Armand in a darkened gallery.

Yes, he would like to be in New York with them.

"I'll make the necessary arrangements to meet you there on the day."

A plane. A coffin. A carefully booked red eye.

"You'll tell me if something changes?" Louis asks. Prompts, softer: "Lestat?"

Who will have to borrow a phone to do so. Preferably Daniel's, but if he wanders off—