“Emmaline Dorathea Black.”
The shrieking voice echoed down the wide hallway leading up to the kitchen doors. It startled the kitchen’s cat, a gnarled old tom who’d been investigating an interesting stain on the floor mat at the entrance, and it made Emmaline Black jump and fumble the tea tray from which she’d been stealing strawberry tarts.
There was a sharp crack as the tray hit the dessert cart, and one of the tarts she’d been squirrelling away into her sash hit the carpet with a sad little splat.
There was no time to mourn the loss of the pastry though, because another harpy scream came shortly after the first, considerably closer this time.