The thought, delivered so gracelessly, has Lestat smile to himself at his piano.
And Daryl is left in peace to conduct his business. The woman with the braid is Narae, and her boat is called The Typhoon, and travels up and down the Seine, transporting all kinds of things. There are quite a few boatman like her (well, grading on the scale of post-apocalyptic numbers) and, like many of them, she has no strong affiliations to the people who man the checkpoints, but has a vested interest in not making herself too much of a problem.
But Daryl has good shit to trade and she has been invited here especially for Lestat's set, primed to receive a deal without asking the kinds of questions that may prove problematic. At least, not for tonight.
Lestat sings a little more. Some Tori Amos, some Billy Joel, people-pleasers. A more American repertoire than is usually enjoyed in the Demimonde, no modern French artists on offer tonight. Maybe it's for Daryl. It would be hard to guess that Lestat's latest musical awakening was in the United States without being told directly. Even when he begins his own composition, a Valentinesy sounding love song, old fashioned but timeless melodies, it's in English.
It's been a long time since he was a mortal, and he tries to think if he ever thought: it's too late for me. He thinks of Nicki instead. A brilliant violinist who picked up the instrument at age 20, and everyone said what he repeated, that he started too old to become the maestro he longed to be. Lestat telling him over and over again how wonderful he played never helped. Perhaps it's like that. Still, they had each other, for a time.
Whoever it is. Quite so, whoever.
When his set finishes, he rises, drinks in the approval like it sustains him. Someone else takes the stage, and Lestat kisses them on the cheek as they pass one another.
no subject
And Daryl is left in peace to conduct his business. The woman with the braid is Narae, and her boat is called The Typhoon, and travels up and down the Seine, transporting all kinds of things. There are quite a few boatman like her (well, grading on the scale of post-apocalyptic numbers) and, like many of them, she has no strong affiliations to the people who man the checkpoints, but has a vested interest in not making herself too much of a problem.
But Daryl has good shit to trade and she has been invited here especially for Lestat's set, primed to receive a deal without asking the kinds of questions that may prove problematic. At least, not for tonight.
Lestat sings a little more. Some Tori Amos, some Billy Joel, people-pleasers. A more American repertoire than is usually enjoyed in the Demimonde, no modern French artists on offer tonight. Maybe it's for Daryl. It would be hard to guess that Lestat's latest musical awakening was in the United States without being told directly. Even when he begins his own composition, a Valentinesy sounding love song, old fashioned but timeless melodies, it's in English.
It's been a long time since he was a mortal, and he tries to think if he ever thought: it's too late for me. He thinks of Nicki instead. A brilliant violinist who picked up the instrument at age 20, and everyone said what he repeated, that he started too old to become the maestro he longed to be. Lestat telling him over and over again how wonderful he played never helped. Perhaps it's like that. Still, they had each other, for a time.
Whoever it is. Quite so, whoever.
When his set finishes, he rises, drinks in the approval like it sustains him. Someone else takes the stage, and Lestat kisses them on the cheek as they pass one another.