Silhouette by Justin Richards

the puppets. There must be thread to hang them from, and poles to elevate the threads since there was no raised area for the puppeteers to stand. And these cut-out shapes could not be the actual puppets because they were solid, with no holesto attach the threads, or any evidence of thread being fixed or glued to them.
    The alternative was just too bizarre to contemplate. Because the alternative was that these were indeed the puppets, he thought as he picked up another of the figures. The alternative was that they were animated in some manner that did not involve the use of threads and poles. That they were not puppets at all, but creatures of card and paper that could somehow be imbued with a life of their own.
    Bizarre and improbable, the Doctor thought. Every bit as bizarre and improbable as an origami bird that could actually fly away …
    He turned to leave, and froze as he heard something from the main tent beyond. The creak of the wooden boards. Footsteps, coming this way. He could wait, brazen it out, demand explanations … But what if it wasn’t Silhouette? It could be anyone. Caution might be a better option until he knew rather more about what he was getting into.
    ‘Silhouette?’ a voice called.
    So, definitely not the woman. And it was a man’s voice, strangely devoid of any inflection. The Doctor lifted the cloth again and crawled under the table, switching off the sonic screwdriver and returning it to his pocket. From here he had a good view of very little, made even less useful by the lack of light. But through the gloom he could make out the legs of theman as he came through to the smaller tent. Dark, nondescript trousers.
    ‘Silhouette?’ the man asked again. Then a sigh of disappointment. The legs hesitated, then turned as the man looked round.
    The man could see as little as the Doctor – probably even less – in the dim light. So the Doctor risked sticking his head out from under the table. Unless the man was actually looking right at him, he’d probably see nothing.
    In fact, the man was already turning to leave. He reached out and drew back the curtain of fabric over the door back into the main tent. As he stepped through, he glanced back.
    In the dim light there was no way to be sure. Probably it was just a trick of the shadows and the way the man moved, the position of his head. But just for a moment, staring up at him through the gloom, it looked to the Doctor as if the man had no face.
    The house where the carriage drew up was very different to the house that the Doctor and Clara had watched Milton enter the previous day. It was set back from the road, screened by a line of trees from the casual attentions of passers-by. Silhouette dropped Milton at the front door before taking the carriage round the a small stable block and coach house at the rear.
    Milton let himself into the house. The lights came on automatically as soon as he was inside. Not gas lamps, but high-luminance LEDs. Milton discarded his Victorian attire and changed into a more comfortable suit made from a body-moulded synthetic material. Then he went down to what had been the drawing room. It was now his study, furnished with a pale, unpatterned carpet. Several plain sofas were arranged round a central hologram of a log fire. A short flight of steps led up to a raised area ringed with steel cords strung between brushed steel posts.
    His desk was in the centre of the area. The screen standing on it showed a selection of different views of the house or the grounds surrounding it. Milton spared these only a glance before going to a side table where a plain glass decanter and glasses rested on a silver tray. He glanced up as Silhouette came in, then finished pouring his drink. ‘Can I get one for you?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    She took off the red cloak and draped it over the back of one of the sofas. Beneath, she was wearing a long, fitted dress of exactly the same colour. A large, facetted, oval red crystal hung on a silver