Lestat stopped walking. Beauty was in no shape to continue walking while this hysterical. And Gabrielle de Lioncourt, cold-hearted thing that she was, had actually managed to raise at least one son that could not stomach the sight of a crying woman.
"Honour," he said, carefully, a hand resting on each shoulder. The instinct to wipe away the tears was there, but he did not do it. There were rules, and decorum, after all.
He tried to rationalize the level of honesty that was necessary here and judged it to be a tightrope, one he did not want to be responsible for walking. Tell her too much and she might become more hysterical, or not recover. Tell her too little and she might find out later, and never speak to him again. Neither was a thing that Lestat wanted. He intensely disliked his position, and that he was in it because of Eric.
"I know very little of Eric," he said. "I know where he calls home. I know he's very, very smart. I will answer any direct question you ask. Do you remember stories, or folk tales, from back home? About beings with powers, or myths?"
He circled his arm around her again then and tried to nudge her into walking once more.