11
Proclamation Day
“Wake up, Peter.”
Peter opened his eyes to find Cune hovering over him and tugging on his blanket.
“Stop that,” Peter snapped, snatching the blanket back. Panic-stricken, he felt around for the amber pieces. There they were, underneath his shoulder. His panic receded like the roar of an outgoing wave at the shore.
“Come on,” Cune said, looking hurt and puzzled. “We’re going to be late. Master Nowak already called from downstairs.”
Peter hadn’t been able to sleep much, thinking about Lioba. He remembered how he had woken up in the snowdrift, stunned and feeling very cold. When he looked in his satchel, the bread and the apples were gone, and there was just Clare’s crumpled-up towel.
His head hurt. It was as if he was bewitched, catapulted by an unseen force into a
