“The scold’s bridle shown here is modelled on a donkey’s head. I gather this was a pretty common design; make the guilty party resemble a jackass, that sort of idea. But I came up with this rough sketch on this paper.” He produced a sheet from his shirt pocket. “The bridle I want is made to look more like a rabbit. See the ears?”

Ivan moved his head vaguely.

“As for the mouth clamp, the book suggests an iron band lined with adjustable screws, points facing inward. These can be tightened to various lengths, depending on how deeply the punisher wants to push the screws into the wearer’s gums…” Peters continued to explain gleefully, before finally asking, “Do we have a deal then, Mr. Biskup?”

Ivan’s gaze was tethered to the bulging envelope on his workbench. “Yes…yes, I suppose we do.”

*

He did not begin to work on the project until the sun had begun to sink, dragging with it some of the swelter. After a pauper’s supper of canned soup and an apple, Ivan wended his way to the garage.

The iron muzzle was the most labour-intensive of the bridle’s components. Mr. Peters had requested that the bit be lined with a gravel-like coating of barbs. A pair of chains linked the mouthpiece to the muzzle, and the whole contraption was framed by a network of flat iron bars bent to fit the exact measurements Mr. Peters had left on his sketch.

The following evening Ivan went about ornamenting the scold’s bridle with the jackrabbit ears of thin metal. He even added six pieces of jutting copper wire to the muzzle; whiskers for the bunny’s polished metal nose. The gum clamp was lined with double rows of screws and the mask’s interior was enhanced with thick spiky bolts. He scored the interior of the eyeholes and peeled back the pointed metal jags so that the wearer’s eyelids would, theoretically speaking of course, be nicked with each blink.

The third night was just a matter of tightening and buffering.

On the appointed morning, Peters came to collect. The metal monstrosity was secreted inside a white cardboard box that bore the insignia of a wine Ivan had never drunk. Peters peeked into the top, then gave what might have been a very faint nod. He neatly folded over the carton’s flaps, picked up his spoil and strolled down Ivan’s driveway without so much as a word.

*

From that day onward, guilt—inexplicable, burning, ever-present—became Ivan’s erstwhile companion. It weighted his frame like a millstone. When he did manage to steal a few hours of sleep it chewed on his psyche, causing dreams of tortures too gorgeous to ever be recalled by a civilized mind. Indeed, Ivan felt as if he was trapped in one of the devices from Peters’ book. He thought of the schoolchildren seeing what he’d wrought. He found that thought unbearable.