Then suddenly, Lorn was on her, pulling at her arms. She threw him off, releasing the pressure on Art’s chest in the process. Lorn crashed against the counter and slid to the floor with a grunt, holding his side. Avara took a step toward the youth, hands raised, and then suddenly stopped. “Oh!” she gasped, the sound incongruously soft and vulnerable. “Lorn, I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside him. “Are you all right?”
“Um,” he said. “Ouch. I think so.”
Art lay where he was, happy just to be breathing. Avara turned and slid down the counter until she sat on the floor next to Lorn. She looked at her hands, clenched them into fists, then carefully relaxed them and placed them palm-down on the floor. “My father always told me,” she said, in little more than a whisper, “to think twice before acti
