Before, Armand's mind was welcoming. He had made a place for Louis, and made the landscape comprehensible. Veiled parts of himself that were too warped to be engaged with, compacted everything down as to not make the concept of ancient so terrifying. Now, it is closed. Louis is received in a kind of psychic lobby, sterile and shuttered; deeper avenues into Armand's consciousness are unavailable. To press in is impossible— Louis will find nothing but impenetrable marble, no seam in sight, and his proverbial nails will chip before he does.

Anger, affection. Seventy-seven years is a long time. Armand beholds him, and for a long moment, says nothing. Perhaps turning Louis' presence over in his psychic hands, like his real ones are twisting a little paper tube. Contemplating.

Him. Mm. He smiles a little to himself, humorless.

'Your objection to my interpenetration is coming a bit late.'

True that he did technically touch the intrepid Mr Molloy, that evening. But the spirit of the order was very clearly about doing harm, and Louis' fascinating boy is just fine. Rules lawyering. With another part of his attention, Armand continues to monitor his project. Tells him to carry on; more gas cans. Go to the next station— no, a little further. Space them out. New Jersey isn't too far down the highway.