Now that the first impulse to violence has passed, Lestat imposes a regime of calm over his heart. He allows his imagination to transport him, but in the absence of evidence, perhaps his jealousy overstates the possibilities. After all - how much sense would it make for Lalo to speak of Louis' proclivities if he knew of them by way of the work of his generous mouth?

A sop to his pride, perhaps. Or a flicker of sense, as rare as the glimmers of green over the dead.

It's only that it's difficult to see how Lalo might not charm and entice, his languid, confident masculinity as compelling as it is. Lestat takes some perverse comfort in permitting it to soothe him, studying the gleam of Lalo's dark eyes with lingering appreciation even now.

"What is there to offer you," he muses aloud, "That I cannot imagine you cannot offer yourself? Tell me - do you care for music, Lalo?"