The bird kept tapping. Ford was sure that Ty had heard him, and was intentionally ignoring him. Theoretically Ford could go lay down again, or at least draw the curtain closed so that Ty might suppose he was laying down, but that wouldn't stop him. It would be a battle of wills: who would give up first? Tycho on the windowsill or Ford tangled in his sheets being driven slightly mad by the persistent noise? It was December, and probably cold outside, so maybe he had some chance of winning this — but then the thought of drawing the curtains and shutting him out while Tycho waited forlornly in the cold made his stomach flip. Were feathers much protection from the elements? Surely not to the same degree as fur; birds were supposed to fly south in the winter.

He approached the window again and undid the latch. "You can't be here," he said, still through the window, but only because he hadn't managed to lift it yet. In another moment he had the window raised and had, with a begrudging expression, stepped aside to leave room for the raven to come in.

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