Tugh did not answer my question. Mary said quaveringly:
"What are you going to do?"
He looked up. "Do not concern yourself, my dear. I am not going to hurt you, nor this young man of 1935. Not yet."
He left the table and came at us. His cloak parted in front and I saw his crooked hips, and shriveled bent legs.
"You stay at the window, both of you, and keep looking out. I want this Harl to see you, but not me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said.
"And if you gesture, or cry out—if you do anything to warn him,"—he was addressing me, with a tone grimly menacing—"then I will kill you. Both of you. Do you understand?"
I did indeed. Nor could I doubt him. "We will do what you want." I said. What, to me, was the life of this unknown Harl compared to the safety of Mary Atwood?
