Airy and light, and then a dark figure in the middle, pale faced and draped in black. There is, all at once, much to see in what at a glance he might have dismissed as childish figures, crayon markings, and Lestat finds himself caught in his study of it, unmoving as the other two come nearer. Dreamy and nightmarish, this painting, and he feels his throat close. Overwhelmed, quite suddenly.

"Yes," he says. "I love it, I think."

He sounds very close to tears.