Lestat, who has only seen this barest glimpse of Louis' life, how he presents within it, nods once at this question. Yes, he is certain.

Less certain: what he wants. He hums an acknowledging sound and then hides an answer in a sip of blood. It would be generous of anyone to say that he had a plan all along, which was to deny himself the urge to go into the earth in the hopes that he would be found, some day, and now that he is, he must know what to do. His sip of blood is long and tolerant.

And himself enough to let his nose wrinkle in the aftertaste. Better than rat, which he'd consumed unflinching for no long, but maybe he would flinch now.

"I'm very adaptable," finally, diplomatic. This era will suit him if he chooses it, as will the next.