However, he had paid his bills and still had cash left over, enough to keep himself in drink for several weeks.

Finally, his guilt crested over into burning curiosity.

Ivan lay on the bed, listening to the windup alarm clock ticking at him from the nightstand like a clucking tongue. It punished him until daylight finally broke.

He sat up too quickly and for a moment the room lilted, yet it did not rob him of his clarity. He needed to know, needed to be reassured that he had done nothing wrong. Of course, his mask had been fashioned in good faith, as a teaching tool, but nevertheless, this rationale could not keep the ugly guilt at bay.

He rose and dressed. This morning he would have closure.

Not until he was out in the street did it occur to Ivan that he hadn’t bothered to check the time. It was early but clearly not too early; women and men on the street were jogging or were beginning their morning commute in their smart-looking business attire.

He thought he’d made it all the way to Peters’ house without being seen when the front door was startlingly flung open. Peters stared hard at him. His white Oxford shirt was buttoned to the collar, but the tie was hanging from his right hand like a limp scourge.

“Ivan!” he said with audible shock.

“I…” he began, clearing his throat as he struggled to find the words, “I just came to…”

Peters raised his hand and chortled softly. “I know why you’re here.” He pushed the door open wide. “You want to see your creation in its new home, yes?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Inside, the house was warm and stale. Heavy drapes kept out the light, kept the rooms obscured.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” lied Ivan.

“Come with me,” Peters said. “You’ll appreciate this. The scold’s bridle is not only beautiful, it works. Come. Wifey’s in the kitchen making breakfast.” The wave of his hand was childlike, playful.

Dread retarded Ivan’s rounding of the corner. When he finally willed himself to advance, his fear became manifest in the shape of the woman at the stove. Ivan could no longer move. His breath leaked out in a low moan. It felt like his organs had been replaced with ice.

She sheepishly sat down at the kitchen table whose single place-setting was for her husband, who casually sat, took up his fork.

The scold’s bridle crowned the woman like some gruesome headdress. The metal ears jutted up as though she was a startled hare listening intently for some encroaching predator. Aside from the cage on her head, the woman’s attire was quite normal, almost banal. She wore a robe of lavender satin. She was looking at Ivan, looking into him. Ivan could see her brilliant blue eyes, shimmering with tears of agony, shining out from the shadows of the Lepus mask.