These moments of silence out of Lestat are probably not a bad sign. Better than kneejerk responses flying from his mouth, volatile reactivity, gestures and a way of performing that is perfectly sincere but nevertheless: a lot. He, like the other two, is quite tired. The sun is in the sky and he can feel the old instinct to go somewhere dark and submit to sleep, but here they are.

And he is not incapable of listening, as a person. Since Paris, and his eyes take on a glossy sheen of dilute red. Louis, deciding to punish them all. Lestat, allowing it. Armand, allowing it.

"He is different," once he is sure his voice will come out even. "I miss him still."