"Don't rush me," a light scolding. "If this room is as impervious to sunlight as you say—"

But, fine. Lestat attends one last window to ensure the curtains drawn properly before turning from it, looking back to where Louis has opened the coffin. Moves nearer, inspecting its insides. Pillowy silk, clean, a marked departure from his own that is, as they speak, likely filling with flood water. That would have been an uncomfortable, waterlogged evening.

Resists the urge to check the door as well. A show of trust, then. He at least feels sharp enough now that there's no clutch of fear that he will sleep and wake up and it will be as if none of this happened, but still. Some small lingering anxiety that, at the very least, Louis himself will vanish.

So, he dawdles. Observes, "The storm blew in fast," as he folds his arms. "It will probably leave just as quickly, don't you think?"