*Its purpose isn't clear. Unsettlingly out-of-place in a house for the aging, sickly and terminal. But there it is. The quintessential Victorian nightmare. The wind-up monkey with tambourine hands. It grins out at Sirius, all glass bead eyes, velvet permanence and barely suppressed evil. It waits for the perfect moment - only eventually, finally, suddenly slamming together its tambourines. Again and again and again, breaking all bonds of silence.*