For as many years as Lestat has been a vampire — a mere drop in the bucket of Armand’s immortality — he still has difficulty masking his own small expressions, instinctive reactions that betray deeper intent which he so often tries and fails to mask. Armand’s admission, as it comes, earns one of those from him now, a subtle flicker in his mirrored gaze paired with a brief parting of his lips, as though he’s moving to speak without being entirely certain of what he’ll say.

“You’re right.” He won’t concede to Armand on many other things, but in this, Lestat grants the other vampire the position of superiority. “A lapse of judgment on my part, though one that fate seems to be giving me opportunity to remedy.”

How else can they explain this strange place that seems all too powerful in its capacity of preventing them from leaving? There’s no sign of Louis — not yet, at least — nor the other vampires of Armand’s coven, which may serve in Lestat’s favor yet.

“Paris still holds many fond memories for me,” he finally replies, looking up at Armand with a small, almost demure smile. “All those nights we sat in your box together. All the things you let me do to you while you sat in observation.”