The empath perched on the sofa and stared at her feet. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and she looked somewhat sad. She was wearing a big, brown, woolly jumper that was nearly the same colour as the cushions, so she looked like a big, sad, earthy blob, almost like a lump of miserable fungus growing on the upholstery.

Raven glided down and landed on the armrest. He looked at the empath with one bright, beady eye, then preened some unruly feathers back into place. He settled his wings more comfortably, preened some more feathers, and then settled his wings again. The bright eye blinked a single time and then he fixed his gaze upon the empath once more. The empath was blind on that side and could not see him properly, but she knew he was there.

She sighed, a big, heavy sigh that was so sad even the sofa sighed too.

"What's the matter, little one?" Raven asked. "You are making the furniture unhappy."

"I'm not little," the empath sniffed. "And I don't sound like Gail Porter. Anyway, the furniture is always unhappy. It's brown."

"You do sound like Gail Porter when you are being miserable and squeaky, and you also make yourself look very small. Brown things can be happy. You are not sad because your jumper is that colour. Soil is happy."

"Poo isn't."

Raven opened his beak then closed it again so that is made a quiet click. The sofa became a little tearful.

"What is the matter?" Raven asked his daughter again.

"Oh Dad," the empath said miserably. "Everything gets stranger every day and I'm worried about my brother. He keeps saying that you are telling him to do things that I know he's not ready for. But I have never heard you telling him to do things he's not ready for." She shed a tiny tear and the sofa whimpered. One of the empath's hand strayed down absent-mindedly and she patted the cushion on which she sat as if it were a dog.

"The world is a strange place, little one. If it seems stranger to you every day then every day you are learning new things, seeing new things. New things are strange. If they are not strange then they are not new, just things you have seen before in a different wrapping. Would the world not indeed be dull if all you ever saw were things you already knew? As for your brother, do you think that he hears everything I say to you?" Raven was now looking at a piece of fluff on the carpet. The empath stared at the same piece of fluff, wondering if it might say something or turn into a caterpillar and crawl away. Pieces of fluff on the carpet could do that sometimes.

"No, Dad, I don't think he hears everything you say to me. But he trusts you, and I know what you're like. You know that. I know what he's like too." The empath sighed again and sank further into the sofa, which made a funny noise and wriggled a little. "I used to be like that, before."

The piece of fluff had not turned into a caterpillar, and it didn't appear to have anything to say.

"These decisions are his to make. If he wants to do these things, and they will teach him much, I see no reason to tell him not to. Did I ever tell you not to?" Raven asked gently.

"He is not ready. He could be hurt. He could get broken."

"Yes, little one, he could. That is his risk. He knows he could get broken."

"No, he doesn't, Dad. He doesn't really. He says he does, but he trusts you, trusts that you wouldn't tell him to do something that he isn't ready for, and you wouldn't. You haven't. You just haven't told him not to and agreed that you want him to do it." Another tear fell from the empath's eye. Raven arranged his feathers again because the light wasn't making them shine quite the way he liked them to. The sofa was still whimpering.

"I do want him to," Raven said. "He will learn many things. Most of the time he only really sees the same things in different wrappers. The boy needs stimulation."

"He's not ready, he doesn't know himself well enough," the empath said quietly.

"Isn't this an admirable way to learn?" Raven asked her. "If he does this thing he will have to learn."

Raven looked quite pleased with himself. He puffed out his chest feathers and raised his ear feathers just a little, in case the empath had forgotten that he could. She hadn't, and now looked quite cross as well as sad.

"If? You know he will. He has made his decision. He will do this whether he is ready or not and because the only enemy in the Land of Vahiyinin's Wapaq is one's own self, I cannot help him."

"He does not need your help."

"Not now!" The empath was trembling. "Not now that you have helped him talk himself into deciding. Now he cannot need my help because to do this is to do this alone. The Land of the Wapaq is an unforgiving place."

"He does not need forgiveness."

"Doesn't he?"

"Not from anyone who will not be there."

"I want to go first."

"To see what colour the wrapper is?"

The empath finally turned her head to stare at Raven, and now her lower lip was trembling too.

"I have not been there. I need to go first, I need to know what it is like because I know what he is like."

"And then you can help him? Even though to do this is to do this alone?" Raven almost chided her.

"Yes!" The empath shook her head. "No. Because then I would know where to look for him should he get lost."

"Only the wrapper is different little one. It only looks strange because the wrapper is different. Once you get inside it is just the same."

"I still want to go inside before he does."

"I will not tell you not to."

"You never do," the empath whispered. She knew, and Raven knew she knew, that not telling someone not to could mean many things. It could mean encouraging someone and being enthusiastic, but it could also mean making the way extremely difficult, maybe even impossible, without ever once expressing outright disapproval.

The empath pointed a finger at Raven.

"Trickster," she said.

Raven leaned forward and touched the tip of her outstretched finger with the tip of his huge, shiny beak, so gently she could barely feel it.

"Yes dear," he said, and then Raven went away.