Lestat takes up his cigarette case to retrieve his own, an elegant way of doing so—of doing everything—that includes a lighter. (He has long since decided that, even in his public outing of himself, not everyone needs to know everything he can do, and so no unnecessary displays of magic occur.) A pleasing clicking of metal, flashing silver, and then leaning back into his seat.

Which gives her a little space, despite the way he has a pinning way of looking at people.

"I came up as the Enlightenment seized Europe," he says. "We barely believed in God, beneath a monarchy ordained by a church, never mind fairies, mermaids, pixies. Witches were merely women on fire. Vampires?"

A sweep of his hand, aristocratic ways of shrugging. "You could not imagine my abilities of comprehension the moment I met my first one. My education was swift."