"I see."

An indulgent I see. What a delightful double-act Louis and Daniel might make, demurring their artistic ability. Their sensitivities. Latent homosexual tendencies as younger men, probably. Lestat sees all. "Then we shall call your book a beautiful danse macabre. Like the bit about me fucking your maker in a theatre box while my heartbroken ex-lover gazed on from the orchestra pit," a slow sweep of his hand to indicate the dramatic tableau. "Such delightful fictions in your journalism."

All credit to Daniel, who'd made sure about indicating the particularly uncorroborated hearsay while providing certain contextual elements. He is a good journalist or whatever. Appropriately, Lestat's tone is not the bristling aggression it could be, but light and dry, acerbic humour like flames licking off the edges.

Back to the photographs. Daniel is probably permitted a word in edgewise before it flips to a smiling Claudia, the backdrop that of a Parisian wine bar, blur and light, and Lestat's hand lifts off the touchpad, a slight flinch.