Lestat takes up his cigarette case to retrieve his own, an elegant way of doing so—of doing everything—that includes a lighter. (He has long since decided that, even in his public outing of himself, not everyone needs to know everything he can do, and so no unnecessary displays of magic occur.) A pleasing clicking of metal, flashing silver, and then leaning back into his seat.
Which gives her a little space, despite the way he has a pinning way of looking at people.
"I came up as the Enlightenment seized Europe," he says. "We barely believed in God, beneath a monarchy ordained by a church, never mind fairies, mermaids, pixies. Witches were merely women on fire. Vampires?"
A sweep of his hand, aristocratic ways of shrugging. "You could not imagine my abilities of comprehension the moment I met my first one. My education was swift."
of course. She studies him, though there is no gasp in time, no extra moments in which she can do so at her leisure. Her observation of him is made frank with his full awareness of it, the little furrow in her brow, her big eyes and what they hide, bigger, beneath. She imagines him then, a series of possible snapshots like a handful of tarot cards fanned out in her mind,
she imagines his teeth the way hers are. Imagines the blood the way someone who has seen it fall from a body in truth might. Dresses him, in her head, in the fashions of the day.
Absently, she decides she likes his hair. The shape of his voice. She imagines him afraid with a clinical remove, and it feels like an echo, a mirror. The back of a car, the broken shoe pressed into her back, her hands bound behind her.
After a moment, “More than only vampires don't want the spotlight levelled toward them, you know.”
That it worries her is as plain as that it intrigues her, too.
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Which gives her a little space, despite the way he has a pinning way of looking at people.
"I came up as the Enlightenment seized Europe," he says. "We barely believed in God, beneath a monarchy ordained by a church, never mind fairies, mermaids, pixies. Witches were merely women on fire. Vampires?"
A sweep of his hand, aristocratic ways of shrugging. "You could not imagine my abilities of comprehension the moment I met my first one. My education was swift."
no subject
Because—
of course. She studies him, though there is no gasp in time, no extra moments in which she can do so at her leisure. Her observation of him is made frank with his full awareness of it, the little furrow in her brow, her big eyes and what they hide, bigger, beneath. She imagines him then, a series of possible snapshots like a handful of tarot cards fanned out in her mind,
she imagines his teeth the way hers are. Imagines the blood the way someone who has seen it fall from a body in truth might. Dresses him, in her head, in the fashions of the day.
Absently, she decides she likes his hair. The shape of his voice. She imagines him afraid with a clinical remove, and it feels like an echo, a mirror. The back of a car, the broken shoe pressed into her back, her hands bound behind her.
After a moment, “More than only vampires don't want the spotlight levelled toward them, you know.”
That it worries her is as plain as that it intrigues her, too.