Paranormalities, unrequited love, and other less exciting accounts of the Victorian Age.

The party had been sensational. Wine was plenty, the food was divine, and despite a tussle with their untuned instruments, the musicians had managed to entertain quite wonderfully. The only issue was an odd scratching heard in the walls that seemed to echo from several floors up. The beautiful hostess nodded, smiled, and was deeply embarrassed.
“It’s probably mice,” announced a rather unsettled elderly guest, adjusting her large feathered hat in an agitated manner. “So many of these new ‘Victorian’ structures are susceptible to nature’s issues.”
“I’m sure that’s not true, dear Lady Nixxell.” A well-mannered blond gentleman grinned, steadying the increasingly alarmed hostess. “I’ve visited sweet Laurea's house on many occasions, and never before have I noticed a single vermin.”
“I’d better go see what I can do about that racket, though.” Laurea consented, nodding.
The blond gentleman seemed suddenly eager. “Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“No, no- would you entertain the guests? I won’t be gone more than a minute.” She smiled at the young gentleman, and sped up the stairs.
The scratching was emanating from one upstairs room, outside the wall, and when Laurea threw open the window, she was only half-shocked to find a tall, well-built young man hanging in an inverted fashion from the bottom of the ledge above.
“Upton, what are you doing?”
There was no answer. The man hung, upside-down, from the slate stack of the roof by the bottoms of his feet and continued to mark the closest edge of the stone with chalk symbols.
“Upton, I’ll call the police.”
“There’s a bad spirit caught to your chimneystack. He’s irritable. Probably threaten to bring down the whole house.” He turned his hollow irises on the girl and cocked a dark eyebrow. “Is that really what you want, Laurea?”
“Obviously not.” She paused to glance back, before settling her forearms onto the windowsill. The chalk markings paused. “I think, perhaps, you should go.”
The scratching reassumed with a vigor, before Upton found it appropriate to finally speak. “Who is he?”
Laurea gazed up at the gentleman quietly. “He’s a friend of the family.”
“Looked a bit more than that.”
“He’s a stable, compassionate gentleman who knows how to court a girl without taking off in the middle of a party,” she snapped. “And he certainly doesn’t go gallivanting off after ‘spirits’ that no one else can detect. And he most certainly doesn’t attempt to make a living off of such an absurd trade!”
Upton paused and stared into the girl’s eyes. She blinked, and her gaze faltered for a moment: he dropped from the slate, and moved, right-side up, onto the ledge. Lauria did not retreat, but flinched as he moved his flickering hand slowly along her chin.
“Be careful.”
“Oh, that’s nice: you’re hanging three stories off a building, chasing a haunt, and you’re lecturing me on safety.” She caught his hand and threw it away from her. “Go home, Upton.”
“What’s his name?”
She sighed. “Cedric. And he’s none of your concern.”
“Cedric.” He chuckled, darkly, and reassumed his chalking, now at the base of the roof.
“You leave him be!” Laurea whispered, suddenly alarmed. Upton glanced sideways at her with a gaze weighted with dark intention.
“I’ve no idea what you’re referring to,” he said. “I wish you and your Cedric the happiest of days. May you bear him many stable, compassionate children.”
“Upton!”
“It’s nothing you haven’t calculated on your own, dear.” He sighed, and mark a large slash across the symbols. A large puff of dust erupted from the top of the chimney.
Laurea nodded. “I suppose your work here is done, then. I bid you good day.” She turned quickly, and advanced several steps before he descended. His hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her back with guarded strength.
“Laurea- wait.”
She pulled, but his free hand wrapped around her throat, drawing her so close against his jacket that she could identify his familiar scent of yellowed pages and rust: a terror of will seized her, washing her senses in cold, clinging panic. He audibly paused, as if to collect his words, then was suddenly very silent.
“The bad spirit-“ he suddenly stumbled. “it’s- it’s clinging to you, and I fear it may disrupt-“ he stopped. His hands were soft and cold, as they had been on the darkened streets of London, years ago. “-it may disrupt your nature.”
Her voice returned, hushed, but potently resentful. “I believe we’re both old enough to stop playing this game, Upton.”
He pressed something crumpled and round into her hand.
“It should keep you safe.”
And then she was suddenly very cold and very alone.
Laurea turned, and glanced backwards at the windows; they swung lightly in the chilling November breeze, creaking softly.
She turned to stare down at her hands, and slowly unwrapped the object: it was an old paper, stained, worn soft, and marked and remarked with added and omitted ink words.
“Dear Laurea,”
She recrumpled it, biting at her lip, and advanced to the window.
She was breathing words to no one. “I’m so sorry.”
Her knuckles clenched, her fingers bit into the soft paper, and the ghost of a letter tore into pieces as if it had always been so separated. A flick of her wrist sent them out the window, and a returning snap brought the windows in. She turned on her heel, her hands rushing to her face, her hair, her dress, and sped back to the staircase. The company had waited for far too long.

Outside, and somewhere below, Upton reached desperately at the pieces, snagging a few here and there, but failing to rescue a great majority.
He stared down at the bits, his own words seeming unnecessary in such a state.
And so end my amends, read one.
Another reads,
with hope.