What a baffling thing for Louis to say, that he picked Lestat over Claudia. He recalls months of conspiracy, he recalls being unable to win Louis back to his side, he recalls his blood flowing from his opened throat and waking to misery, torment, abandonment, and his fledglings off on their grand adventure. It reads on his face, a moment of transparent bewilderment, before he manages to tamp this down into something more neutral, or so he hopes. A look down and aside might help.

Well, he supposes, he is alive and Claudia is not. And of course, it would be just like his most spoiled daughter to believe she did not have enough of Louis just because Lestat was not dead forever. His twinge of resentment is almost affectionate.

"We might blame Armand," he manages. Move on. Continue. "Wherever he might be."

This, too, is a question.