Memories, like light refracted on water. The people that have come and gone, the little affections, associations. A songbird. A set of hands that look like they've permanently taken bruises.

Lestat absorbs it all, a busy fragment of his mind as he commits to crooning heartbreak. The resistance he feels from Daryl doesn't compel him to put pressure on it, not particularly—it's enough that the human enjoys his voice, that it makes him think of things that hurt his heart.

A preference for flannel and unshaven throats and rough hands, he wonders, or simply signifiers of something more crucial?

He has read every book in Paris, watched every existing reel of film, talked to everyone of any interested. Novelty is as much a craving as blood.

Who's Rick? comes his voice, blooming tenderly at the back of Daryl's mind. There is no real way to minimise a mortal's alarm at such invasions besides exposure, but Lestat's echoed voice is about as gentle as it gets.

A sly smile, cast his way, flicked across the room.