A reversal of the pretense they once engaged in: Lestat follows two dutiful steps behind Louis, an attendant on a princeling of the night. To the indiscriminate eyes of this motley crowd, liberated as they are from so many of the social mores of their time, it means nothing. It means little to Lestat, who knows his place wherever he might stand. Playing at the fool or the dilettante were no more an insult to his dignity than playing at the follower is now.

But such things mean a great deal to Louis. His propriety, his station, his gravitas. With the state of their rebalanced truce, Lestat thinks that this gesture will help shield the little spark of warmth that they kindled in the priest's vacant office, nurturing it through the dark like a candle.

He pays his respects to the dead in passing in his own way. He thinks of them even when they are out of sight, bestowing upon them the unusual distinction of being worthy of his recollection. In a hundred years time, he will still be able to call the scene to mind, marked out from anonymity. Few humans ever merit such consideration. It will do them no good, but it is what he can provide.

The night is beautiful. The moon floats in her sea of stars, untouched by any mortal concern, and the air is as clear as glass. The cold barely touches him as he steps up to Louis' side to guide him home.