Neal makes a tiny, ironic sound. “Just because the alcohol content won’t have an impact, that doesn’t mean you can’t still appreciate a good vintage. Right?”

His smile at Lestat is small but genuine. He joins the vampire at the window with two glasses of a nice red he’d tucked away after the future New York port. It’s an appropriate choice, given the question. “New York, New York. The city so nice they named it twice.”