Lestat's grin loses all of its coyness. It's a open flash of light off the edge of a knife, but not one turned to lethal ends. A circus performer's trick blade, forged for style and balance over lethality.

"Mr. Gibson," he says, dropping his voice to a more private register as he leans in, "Or one of that poxy, scurvy-ridden ilk. But don't take me for hedging my bets - I'm quite firm on my first selection."

There's no especial reason to choose Mr. Gibson, or to name the stranded ship's crew. Lestat just has a fleeting suspicion that the doom hanging over them will win out in the end, one way or another.