Lestat nods.

Leans across the edge of the coffin from where he stands within it, pulling Louis closer by the hand so he can wind an arm around him. Tuck his face in there against his shoulder. Not the same collapsing urgency as the gravitational pull of mutual grief, the hurricane muted where it rages beyond sturdy walls and boarded windows, but perhaps they can be permitted this—another embrace, because they have missed one another.

"I was," he whispers. "I was there."