Once upon a time, not long after the third World War, there lived a clever girl named Vasilissa. She grew up in one of the last remaining cities, one that had had a dome to keep the radiation out; the dome was shattered in the last bombardment and now hung in sheets and shards from the tops of the roofs, but it had protected them well enough, from the bombs if not the EMP that had fried the systems.

Transcript
Luna City Museum of Experimental Technology
AI tour of travelling exhibit: Memento Mori

Pearls are the wealth of my kingdom; everything here, from goat to cabinet to tapestry to handful of grapes, is bought and paid for in pearls. Pearls swing from my daughters' ears, wrap 'round their delicate wrists. Some things are worth their weight in pearls. I am worth more, for it is I who bring them forth, sing them forth - luminous nacreous spheres tumbling forth, scattering on the ground. It is I who must be protected above all else, the king my husband says - so I am more mine and mint than wife and queen.

I received word today of my sister.

I saw him as soon as I emerged from the tunnel - an elegant enormous beast, settled on his haunches, limned by the sunrise. His feathers ruffled slightly in the breeze. "Agent Scott, I presume," he rumbled without turning to face me.

"Galen," I acknowledged, approaching the gryphon slowly. "How did you know it was me?"

He gave a wry huff. "Any of the others would've shot first and asked questions later. How did you know which of the tunnels I was actually using?"

"It smelled like you."

At that, he turned. "What do I smell like to you?"

I met her at one of Sara's parties. Jeff had dragged me - he was more into the whole party thing than me. Given my druthers, I'd rather stay home with my guitar. But Sara's been a friend since grade school, and Jeff had been dying to meet her since he found out I knew her, so off we were to Sara's, to watch her play hostess and gyrate in tight leather pants and not much else. We'd just entered, and I was looking for a quiet corner to hole up with my drink and notebook when I saw her. Her - the girl from Peter's recent photo series, Ondine.

I enter the tent to the throbbing pulse of drums, stalk in swathed in black silk scarves… no color save for the steel collar around my neck.

I stand beneath the shabby painted-wood sign, splinter-prone:

The Queen of Air and Darkness

Seymour waited in his little basement in The Year 2003, fidgeting, re-reading the carbon copy of the letter his wife should be reading right now back in 1953.

It is the way of kings to shower their queens with gifts; it is the way of queens to develop fondnesses, hobbies, collections. And so the master jeweler and I, his apprentice, noticed a pattern in the requests coming from the castle.

The new-wed queen wanted cages.