There's less excuse now, Louis knows. There are two coffins in this apartment. There are the sewers accessible to them.

Louis does not volunteer this.

Nothing is repaired. Everything is repaired. Both of these things are true.

Tears still run silently down his face as he nods, jaw set. His palm aches where Lestat kissed. He cannot imagine getting into a coffin by himself. Has that been taken from him? The ability to find rest on his own?

"Mine's beneath that bed," Louis tells him. "Her's is underneath here."

The heel of his boot scrapes backwards, thunks softly against concealed wood.