Read Legacy of the Claw for Free Online Page B

glimpse of the meeting hall being decorated with garlands and banners for the welcoming ceremony scheduled for the next morning. Ms. Shonfield’s office walls were packed with yellowed photographs of Fairmount headmasters of old, posing with members of Parliament and once-famous tinkerers. Bailey was especially impressed by a very grainy photo that showed men and women in formal dress during the Age of Invention, cutting a ribbon in front of a new, shiny rigimotive car. Ms. Shonfield caught him looking.
    â€œThe maiden voyage,” she said proudly. “A few of our own professors were on the team that developed the rigimotive, back when our engineering program was a tad larger. We used to be much more of a research academy, but when Melore was killed  …  well, things got a little leaner.”
    Bailey noticed the tall, dark-bearded man holding the scissors. His striped suit was covered by a long greatcoat, intricately woven to look like soft, wild fur. His smile was wide under his top hat, his eyes sparkling.
    â€œWho is that?” he asked.
    Ms. Shonfield shook her head.
    â€œIt’s a miracle that picture has survived,” she said, a note of wistfulness in her voice. “So many photographs from that era were destroyed when the Jackal took power. That’s Melore, the fallen king. This photo was taken only
one week
before his assassination at the Aldermere Progress Fair, and his palace invaded and burned  … ” She trailed off, lost in the pull of history. The wombat sat on her desk, chewing on a piece of paper and looking wistfully into the distance.
    â€œWow,” said Bailey. He’d heard about King Melore, of course. Though twenty-seven years had passed since Melore had died, most people Bailey knew remembered the king fondly.
    â€œYes, well, what’s done is done,” she said, rousing herself. “I didn’t bring you here to speak of dead kings. Go on. Take a seat.” She gestured to a chair across from her desk. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Walker. We don’t know where to put you.”
    Bailey shifted in his seat, dreading the questions to come.
    â€œI thought it was clear on the registration forms,” she said, shuffling several papers on her desk. “We absolutely must know what Animas you are, so we know where to house you and get you registered for the most appropriate courses.”
    â€œOh,” said Bailey. He took a deep breath. “I haven’t really got a  …  I mean, I haven’t  … ”
    Ms. Shonfield leaned in, listening intently.
    â€œNo matter what your Animas is, Bailey, there’s no need to be ashamed! We take all kinds here at Fairmount. Not like the old days! Had an Animas Sloth graduate last year and you know, when he wasn’t sleeping in class, he was absolutely lovely.”
    Bailey looked down at his hands, resting on his now dirty work pants, wrinkled and worn after a two-day ride on the cramped rigimotive. He just wanted to get to his trunk, and crawl into a real bed.
    â€œI haven’t Awakened to my Animas yet,” he said. “I don’t know what it is.” Or if I have one at all, he thought.
    Ms. Shonfield sat back in her chair and snatched her glasses off of her face. She squinted at him.
    â€œAn Absence,” she said breathlessly. “That’s quite  …  unique.”
    â€œI guess so,” said Bailey, as the word
Absence
—so final, so bleak—echoed in his ears. His mom and dad had made a point never to use it. People with a lifelong Absence were rare to the point of myth. In the stories Bailey had heard, they always ended up insane, or worse.
    â€œIt’s not
permanent,
I’m just developing slowly, that’s all,” he added quickly, just in case she was about to tell him he couldn’t stay. “I’m adopted, so it’s taking me longer to figure out what kind of animal I bond with. I