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    Summary

    Had it been weeks? Months? Since Louis had arrived wet haired and wetter eyed in his home in New Orleans? (Comme il se berçait d’illusions. Like he hadn’t counted the nights – hadn’t woken each of the 44 of them since Louis had come to him like his ribcage had been prized open, his heart searching for the rhythm of his, as if it had suddenly forgotten how to beat on its own). Lestat, of course, had been perfectly content with his living situation – he may not have liked the mold, but personally he rather enjoyed the earthy smell it brought with it. It offered a certain je ne sais quoi to his current state of being, non? – but Louis had had other ideas.

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    Between the reunion and the book's publication, Lestat and Louis really were finding their way back to each other.

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