Ridiculously, mutual responses of reservation and wariness shove Lestat further to the edge of his bad mood, as if he were not passively exuding it like radioactivity. A little 'ah' at Louis' suggestion follows him shifting his weight from his lean and onto his feet, arms unfolding, all too much grace and deliberation in the way he moves.

"Yes, of course, my role here," a gesture between them all. "A devout guard dog, while not-quite-your fledgling grows his fangs."

What would be like from them? To detect exactly what the matter is, to offer apologies and gratitude like tributes to an altar? It would certainly help. His voice loses some of the simpering, ash-soft quality, words coming sharper;

"How long were you both intending to keep his presence a secret from me?"