The chandelier buzzed overhead, throwing soft gold light across the old sitting room. You were stretched out on the couch, and Lestat was across from you: one leg folded under him, the other hanging lazily off the edge, his glass of wine untouched.

You’d asked him, without much thought, about commedia dell’arte.

That was all it took.

“Ah, commedia dell’arte,” he said, eyes brightening instantly. “The theatre before theatre had rules. Fools, lovers, tricksters. Chaos pretending to be order. Wonderful.”

He gestured loosely with one hand, already lost in memory. “There were the Zanni, the clowns, always scheming. The Vecchi; The pompous Doctor. The miserly Pantalone. And, of course, lovers like Lelio. The beautiful, hopeless romantic.” A grin tugged at his lips. “I always played Lelio, of course. You’d have rolled your eyes at him.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Paris, 1780s. A troupe of Italian actors took me in. We performed in courtyards, on tavern floors, in alleyways. Masks, leather, music. I learned more about humanity under those masks than I ever did watching the real thing.”

He chuckled softly, his tone warm but wistful. “It saved me, you know. Pretending. Playing. Feeling everything at once and calling it art.”

Then he tilted his head toward you, grin widening just slightly. “I still have the masks somewhere. You should try it. Maybe you’d be my Harlequin. Or Colombina, if you’d rather torment me.”

He raised his glass, eyes glinting like he was still on stage. “Life’s theatre, darling. The only difference is—” his smile sharpened, “—we never take off our masks.”