It is a much appreciated garment. Lestat's memories tend to feature it in cosy nights in, both of them reading quietly or engaged in quiet conversation in a bed that is only used for recreation. Reveal a little of his history in his highhanded condescension for what New Orleans calls 'winter'. Sets of pyjamas underneath, or nothing underneath. Louis' arms around him, Louis' shoulder leaning against his.

So there is a twinge of new affection for this gesture, carried in the way he watches Louis slide out of bed, stand to go fetch their blood. (Had only seemed to anticipate the arrival of the mugs, and nothing more.)

Lestat eases himself up to slouch against the headboard, legs curling in. "She will need to be sure they're reputable," he says, instead of something like That isn't necessary. "It's not delicate, but a little old."

As if he's been looking after it at all.