[ He watches her again, trying to map out how her soul might speak to him were he to take a look at her mind now, but willing himself to rely more purely on this alone. She must have picked up his presence somehow to know what he's capable of, or perhaps she'd been playing the fool the whole time, but Lestat feels a strange reluctance to overstep that particular mark right now. That hand she'd raised as if to take his - had it been to push him away, to stop him, or to keep him there? She doesn't need an explanation, but he offers one anyway: ]

I don't have control over what I see in that moment, just as I don't have control over how I share in the thoughts and emotions you were feeling at the time.

[ In other words, Lestat could be entirely honest if he were to tell her that he knows how she feels, even if he isn't equipped with detail or memory like she is. All he has is a feeling. Perhaps its his vampiric nature that makes him reluctant to let the feeling go, to be tempted to bask in it and let it wash over him, or perhaps it's the same influence from the human part of him that makes him so desperate to comfort her.

With his impressive height and his back to her like this, in their secluded little end of the veranda, it's pretty easy for him to swiftly pull her forwards by the shoulders, till she's pressed against him in what can only be described as a surprisingly warm hug. Y'know, for a dead guy. He won't hold her too tight or for too long though, in case she'd rather pull away. He won't be offended. ]