After many exchanges of messages with warqueenfuriosa (lots and lots of thanks) about Goody's life before the war, what led up to it, and the things that continued to haunt him, this is the result. As a warning, it'll probably be a pretty slow build. When Goody is with Billy, the year is 1877, and when he's in Louisiana, it's 1855.

Disclaimer: I wish I owned Magnificent Seven, but sadly, I do not.

"You ever been in love?" Billy asks as they pass by this town's saloon, and Goodnight's first reaction is to laugh. Leave it to Billy to make him laugh on today of all days.

"What, have you taken up with one of the hussies?"

Billy shrugs noncommittally and pushes open the door to their hotel. "I just ask. I don't know that about you."

He falters on the steps while Billy continues up in his graceful way. If it had been one of the things that attracted him, it was also one of the things Goodnight hated: Billy's quiet sincerity. He wants to believe this was just a silly question, but Billy isn't one for those; he'll jest and kid, but he never does something without reason, and he certainly never asks personal questions. It's this quality in which Goodnight finds something to respect, and he feels that Billy is entitled to an answer, no matter how much he doesn't want to give him one. A familiar empty ache enters his chest as his words, so quiet and distant that they hardly seem like his, leave his mouth. "Once. In another lifetime."

After he's toed off his boots and slipped out of everything but his underwear, Billy leans back on his bed. Uncharacteristically, he hadn't heard the implication that Goodnight had no interest in touching on the subject—or perhaps he just didn't care—and he gives the older man something like a smile. "Can I guess?"

"You can guess all you want, but you won't figure anything out." Goodnight reaches for his flask and tips it back against his lips, only to find that it's empty. What a goddamn perfect time.

"She was the—what do they call them—the belle of the county, spent her days strolling under a parasol, and had all the men falling all over her," Billy tries, the corners of his mouth turned up in a way that only Goodnight can recognize.

Goodnight closes his eyes. This was not a conversation he'd ever planned on having with anyone ever again, not even Billy, despite how close they'd grown. He'd left that part of him far behind on the banks of a Louisiana creek some twelve years ago. Or so he'd tried. He gets off his own bed to search for their liquor stock and brings the bag with him. This could take a while, and he has no intention of doing it alone.

For a moment, Goodnight doesn't speak, but stares distantly at the wall. Finally, he takes the cork off the bottle. "First of all, we lived in Louisiana and had parishes, not counties. And the name was Augusta Evercreech from Saltmore Hall. She liked to read under the willow by the creek, had the curliest black hair you ever did see, and had the Devil himself in the form of sisters."

"Did you call her Gus?" Billy's voice after the pause sounds almost timid, a rare characteristic from him, so different from the assured man he usually is.

Goodnight's head snaps up, eyes narrowed at Billy accusingly, whose face is as stony as always. Had the other man gone through his things? As much as he trusts Billy, he imagines him rifling through his packs, finding their letters, everything he'd managed to salvage, and he feels incredibly betrayed. "How'd you know?"

Billy looks him in the eye, and Goodnight knows he isn't lying. "You talk in your sleep."

000

One by one, the carriages came rolling up the road in a cloud of dust towards Fair Oaks. As each pulled to a stop, Mr. Aaron Magee and his eldest son Micah reached up to help the ladies out in a flurry of skirts and lace, hoops and crinolines. The Magee men would shower each girl with enough compliments to seem charming, and the girl would blush and move on to kiss Mrs. Kathleen Magee.

From the sides, Goodnight Robicheaux gathered with a few other gentlemen and watched as each lady alighted from her carriage. First came the Jarreau family in their famous yellow carriage with their infamous red hair flaming, fire emerging from the sun. Olive and Opal were the two sisters, Olive just making her debut after a line of brothers and Opal.

The Millers were next, with all five boys riding up on their horses and momentarily distracting the two hosts from helping down the fair-haired ladies in the Verret carriage. They came tumbling out in a whirlwind of overwhelming energy, sweet, silly fools the lot of them: there was Blanche, desperate for a proposal by Elam Miller before she turned into an old maid; Minerva, the petite youngest; and the twins, Hattie and Mathilde, who moved together in simultaneous raucousness.

"Oh good. Here comes the party," Goodnight heard the man to his left, Ames Rubadeau say. Goodnight fiddled with a cigar in his fingers, twirling it but not smoking, and laughed. The Verret girls were lively to say the least. He looked into Ames' face and saw the other man watching the sisters with a smile he had not seen before.

"And we know how you love a party."

Ames turned his smile to Goodnight and poked him in the chest. "You just keep your eyes on the unclaimed."

A red carriage came to a stop, and Mr. Magee opened the door. Micah held out his hand, and a little gloved one took it. Out stepped a girl with a head full of tight black curls and a bright smile, neck blushing at whatever Micah said.

"Who's that?" Goodnight asked, feeling like he'd seen her face though he was unable to put a name with it. She was lovely enough not to be quite plain, and upon first impressions, seemed quaint enough.

"Miss Augusta Evercreech," Ames said, to which Goodnight whistled and shook his head. "She came out last summer after Mardi Gras. Currently unclaimed."

When Ames said that, it clicked in Goodnight's mind why she was so familiar. Besides the social events where their paths had crossed somewhat in the past, the girl in question was almost a smaller version of Salome Evercreech Saucier; almost, but not quite, and mainly because she had a smile on her face. The three oldest Evercreech girls, who had lived at the plantation to the south of the Robicheauxes, were known—aside from their breathtaking beauty—for a few rather unsavory qualities, but Augusta had not garnered that same strange fame as her sisters. Goodnight shook his head again. "I'll try my hand at one of the Verret girls before I ever try an Evercreech. Forgot there was one after Oceane. I recognize her now. Fellows should have learned their lesson after Anastasie, but somehow they still managed to get all caught up in the other two."

Ames merely laughed. "Goodnight, I'm sure glad you're home. Why'd you even go off anyways?"

"Let's put it this way: now I can run the fields and recite Shakespeare."

Ames rolled his eyes. "You could do that before you left. I can speak French, and that's good enough for me. I've got all the women that I need."

"One Verret? That's all you can handle." Ames shoved him away with a laugh, telling him to go find them some liquor. "Lord knows you'll need it!" Goodnight called over his shoulder, and Ames' own unsmoked cigar hit Goodnight's back.

He meandered through the crowd in search of Micah Magee, who would undoubtedly have whiskey, and was forced to stop repeatedly by people welcoming him home. He'd spent the last two and a half years at university in Charleston, studying the classics and devouring every piece of information he'd come across. Yet, as exciting as his studies had been, and despite the friends he'd made, he'd missed Louisiana and New Orleans. He wanted to hear the drawl of the Deep South that held no effect on impeccable French, and he wanted to roam the bustling streets of the city. He wanted to come home. And besides, tensions had been getting too high for him in South Carolina.

Goodnight had enjoyed seeing Ames, his childhood friend who did not share a passion for knowledge and who was more likely to be caught in a dress than with a book in his hand. They'd spent four days of the past week riding their horses and shooting guns, while Ames had tried to fill in everything that Goodnight had missed. Letters had taken care of the major things, but they had not mentioned the Millers' ball where a polecat scared the Pajud horses and the fit that Oceane, the third Evercreech sister, had thrown at the smell, nor did they mention the hunting party where Amos Abellard had nearly blown off his own foot.

"Goodnight!" Micah cried, throwing an arm around Goodnight's shoulders and teetering unsteadily, proving that he was wasting no time in getting drunk. "Good to see you! Found any ladies you want an introduction to?"

"Thank you, but the only introductions I'm seeking are to a couple of bottles of whiskey."

Micah wagged a finger towards Goodnight. "Ah, you sonuvabitch, you. You know me so well. Thomas, fetch my friend Mr. Robicheaux here two—"

"Three," Goodnight said, just to test exactly how drunk Micah was.

"Three bottles of whiskey," Micah told the nearest negro boy. When the boy had run off, Micah clapped Goodnight on the shoulders. "Goodnight, you sonuvabitch, it's good to have you back. It's been ages since there was a party at Foxsong. You know what you need—a ball. You need to host a ball now that you're home. Don't tell my mama, but there ain't no one around here with balls like the Robicheauxes."

After the words left his mouth, Micah grew quiet and looked Goodnight straight in the eyes. Then he burst into laughter. "No one around has balls like the Robicheauxes!"

Out of mostly amusement at how drunk Micah was already, Goodnight chuckled politely, noticing how those close to them were staring; he didn't mind attention so long as it was for the right reason, but Micah rarely brought about the right kind of attention. "That's a good one, Micah." The negro boy returned with the whiskey, and Goodnight took it quickly and pocketed a bottle, ducking away before Micah could say anything else.

"About time you came back. I was beginning to think you'd run off back to Charleston with all of it." Then Goodnight held up two bottles, and Ames whistled. reaching for one. "Say, I'm going to have my barbecue with Mathilde, are you sure you don't need me to introduce you to anyone? Lots of girls came out while you were gone—or did you get sweet on one in Charleston?"

"You won't meet prissier girls than those in Charleston. I'll be fine, Ames." His friend didn't seem convinced. "Ames, this hasn't changed. You're still chasing skirts, and I'll get around to it when one strikes my fancy."

Dark eyes twinkling in a way Goodnight had long learned meant that Ames was up to no good, his friend shrugged. "Alright, Goody, whatever you say. But I insist that you eat with us nonetheless."

000

Under one of the oaks for which the plantation got its name, Goodnight and Ames, along with the two youngest Miller boys, took their barbecue with the Verret twins and Minerva, the twins' best friend Augusta Evercreech, and Opal Jarreau, and as usual, the Verret girls didn't stop chattering. Goodnight was content to sit back and let Ames and the twins have their fun, getting in a jest when one of them stopped for a rare breath and only feeling the slightest bit out of place after being away for so long.

"Goodnight, I believe you know Miss Hattie and Miss Mathilde, but this is their sister Miss Minerva, Miss Augusta Evercreech, and Miss Opal Jarreau," Ames had managed to say at first, before he was promptly blinded by the lovely creatures in skirts.

Since then, Goodnight, Opal, and Augusta had been overshadowed by their raucous companions. The two girls had taken up their own quiet conversation on the side, giving Goodnight a chance to get a better look at the group.

Out of all five, Minerva was by far the prettiest, with dainty little features and bright fair hair, but she was a Verret, and as much as Goodnight loved to talk, and as much as she was overshadowed by her sisters, she was making his head spin. Opal, the redhead, had donned her best blue muslin dress, and if she hadn't had such a blank look in her eyes, she could have been appealing. Up close, Augusta's own eyes, green, were slightly buggy but lively, and even if it was fake from talking to Opal—which Goodnight couldn't determine no matter how hard he tried—she kept the smallest little smile on her face, just enough to be noticed and make one want to smile too. 'Approachable' was the word Goodnight thought described her.

When she seemed to notice Goodnight was not taking part in any conversation, Augusta put a hand on Opal's dress. "Oh dear, Opal, we've been so rude. Mr. Robicheaux has just come home, and we haven't said a word to him. And you know we simply must, considering our other companions."

Goodnight couldn't help but laugh, even as Augusta's eyes widened almost sheepishly, neck reddening at her words getting ahead of her lips. "No worries, Miss Augusta, I was not offended by any part of your statement."

"Please excuse me," she said, ducking her head to hide a smile. "That was not kind at all."

"I believe it serves to shed some light on a predicament of mine. You see, I was just sitting here wondering how you, so fair and mild, could possibly be one of the Evercreech sisters." If he hadn't been a gentleman, the look on her face told Goodnight that she would likely be rolling her eyes at him. "How are you sisters, by the way? I haven't heard about them in a good while."

"If only we were so lucky," she teased, taking a deep breath, brow furrowing in concentration. She began slowly, perhaps to keep herself in check. "Anastasie is living in New Orleans, down on Pyrantia Street. She has three children now, all boys, thankfully more akin to Amos. Salome is as ornery as always, she's at Dorian Saucier's plantation in Reggio, one girl. And Oceane—well, to our relief, she's a good ways away in Baton Rouge. No children. Again, thankfully, for the children's sakes."

"Don't remember much about Anastasie, she was married before I started coming around. Of course, no one can forget Oceane, but I remember Salome, though by then she was engaged, I believe. Truth be told, Salome scared me a little."

Augusta laughed sharply before she could stop herself and then pressed a hand to her mouth, casting her eyes to Opal as the other girl rose and went to meet Mrs. Magee, who was making her way towards them. "Oh, Salome is as harmless as she is heartless."

"Well, it's no matter. I would not like to end up on her bad side. She was a good bit older, and between that and that scowl, I could never find the courage to ask her to dance."

"Pardon me," Opal said, returning and breaking into everyone's conversations, "but Mrs. Magee is curious as to whether the ladies are ready for a nap."

"We'll be right along, Opal," said Augusta before turning back to Goodnight. "It has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope I'm not as frightening as Salome."

Goodnight gave her a lopsided grin in return. "Not nearly. I'd have to say you remind me more of Oceane."

Her face paling, Augusta's expression immediately changed from one of happiness into one of horror and disgust, but when Goodnight laughed, she grinned too, color returning. She huffed, hands on her hips with a good-natured smirk. "I hope I never hear that again."

000

And with that, Augusta and the Verret girls followed Opal into the house, which was already filling with ladies for the mid-afternoon nap. As the day turned to evening, the gentlemen downstairs could hear the ladies upstairs getting ready to make their appearance. They listened in amusement at the twins scolding Minerva for taking their ribbons, at the tragedy of Miss Evangeline DuBois' ripped skirt, and about how they needed to get Olive Jarreau's hair in shape if she was ever going to have any luck. And then the men went back to smoking cigars and drinking their brandy. Eventually they retired to change into their formal wear, taking no time at all in comparison, and waited at the foot of the stairs for the ladies.

Next to Goodnight, Ames bounced from foot to foot, chattering away happily; in all their years together, Goodnight had become adept at not paying attention to Ames' rabbit trails, just as Ames had done with him, but he perked up when Ames mentioned Mathilde. "I hope she wears that purple dress. I declare, she could wear that purple dress every day, and she'd still be stunning. She'll probably come down with Miss Augusta, don't you think, Goody?"

"I suppose," Goodnight agreed, though he had no clue who the twins would come down with. But he would not be opposed to it being Augusta; she'd been right captivating at supper, hinting at an unknown vivacity under her soft demeanor, and he hadn't been able to escape those big lovely eyes once she'd turned her attention to him.

Ames elbowed him. "You better ask her for a dance—ask her when she gets down. It won't look strange if she comes down with Mathilde. You'll look like you're with me, and I'll go up to Mathilde, and you'll have to talk to Miss Augusta so that you don't look rude. No one will think anything of it, if that's what you were worried about."

"Why do I want to ask Miss Augusta for a dance?" Goodnight asked, almost irritated with Ames. Over and over hundreds of times, he'd insisted that if a girl came along and he liked her well enough, then he'd make plans from there; but since he'd been home, Ames had become even more transfixed on finding Goodnight a girl, and it was likely he'd suggested every girl he knew between Foxsong and Baton Rouge.

"You two hit it off just fine at supper, and don't look so surprised that I was watching. Why wouldn't you want to ask her for a dance?" Goodnight started to reply that she was an Evercreech girl, but Ames cut him off. "Don't give me that. You know she's ten times friendlier than Salome and nothing close to Oceane. Now that you're home, you're going to have to do some dancing."

"I'm not arguing to dancing, Ames—"

"Goodnight," Ames said, serious for once, eyes solemn and out of place in his childish face. He put his hand on Goodnight's shoulder. "It's just a dance, and you two were friendly enough. Please?"

"I'll think about it," Goodnight said to pacify him, but his stomach somersaulted at the thought of asking Augusta to dance—not that he hadn't considered it all afternoon.

Obviously appeased for the time being, Ames began to prattle on again about this girl and that, always circling back to Mathilde and Augusta. Ames chased skirts and loved women in his own way, but Goodnight loved them in another; Ames loved women for what they could give him, but Goodnight loved them for what they were: God's greatest gift to man. He loved the way they moved, the way they spoke, and he loved how quietly resilient they were. Women were made to be adored and treasured, not pursued for fun as Ames thought, and it was this notion that made him so nervous.

But Goodnight stood happily at the foot of the stairs and watched as each lady made her descent, arms linked with a friend's, laughing and talking behind their fans. The difference between them at supper and now was astonishing, and he was amazed at how a pretty dress and the thought of dancing could make them so giddy.

They heard Mathilde and Hattie before they were seen. Sure enough, Ames had been right. Hattie and Minerva came first, followed by Mathilde, luckily in her purple dress, carefully watching Ames while she whispered to Augusta, who had something akin to self-conscious embarrassment on her face. Whatever Mathilde said made her look over the railing to where he was, and with a blush, she gave him a smile and nod, and turned gracefully back to Mathilde, who looked like she was receiving a scolding.

Before he realized what was happening, Ames, with a whistle, had drug him by the arm to where Mathilde was. "My, oh my, aren't you two stunning! What do you say, Goody?"

"Yes," Goodnight stammered once he'd recovered his voice, "positively radiant."

Mathilde paid him no mind, but his head swelled at her companion's blush. Miss Augusta was pretty, in her own way, with her tight curls now falling unpinned around her shoulders and down her back, and a soft green dress about the color of her eyes. As Goodnight noticed this, he tried to reach deep down to find his courage. He could do it. "Miss—"

"Augusta, come with me," Minerva said, tugging Augusta away without even a glance to Goodnight, though Augusta sent him an apologetic look over her shoulder.

As they made their getaway, followed by Mathilde and her expression of fury, Ames turned to Goodnight with a look on his face of utter astonishment, having obviously realized Goodnight had been in the process of going along with his plan but had been thwarted by a tiny little girl. Goodnight could only shake his head and say, "Goddamn."

"Goddamn," Ames nodded. The ball was winding to a close, with only one dance left, and it was now well into the morning. Try as they might, neither Goodnight nor Ames had been able to corner Augusta, and on more than one occasion, Goodnight had caught Mathilde looking as though she were about to throttle someone.

000

"Miss Augusta," Mr. Magee began just before the last song, "would you do us the honor of a story?"

"Me? Oh, you don't want a story from me," the girl in question replied, waving her hand as if to brush the request off. At the uproar of the crowd, her signature blush crept up her neck, and Goodnight, despite his frustration, couldn't help but grin when he noticed. "Well, if you insist."

"You're in for a treat," Ames said. Around him, Goodnight heard whispers about Miss Augusta telling a story float through the air, and everyone began to gather. Once she had taken a seat on the porch steps and settled her skirts around her, she gave them all a closed-mouth smile that was no longer bashful and peered into the faces of those closest to her, batting her eyes just enough to draw attention to them.

"Now. We all know a skeptic, and Tom was exactly that. If science couldn't prove it, he didn't believe it. Mind you, Tom was a big man, tall and proud, and he wore his opinions like he wore his fine pocket watch: where everyone could see. Well one fine evening while the moon was full and bright, Tom was down at the—the watering hole, if you will—shooting the breeze and enjoying drinks with some other local men, when the topic turned towards ghosts. One of the men, Louie, began to tell them about his old Uncle Alastair and the nearby cemetery. And Tom wasted no time in telling people what he thought.

"'Oh, there ain't no such thing as ghosts,' he said, loudly so that even the deafest of ears could hear. 'Science has never proven that there are, so they must not exist.'"

Goodnight stood in place, enraptured by the words pouring from her lips, the way her voice was somehow equal parts meek and confident, and how her lovely face could change expressions on a dime. And, well...he'd never been able to turn down a good story.

"Well, Louie was a bit offended, and he snapped right back at Tom, 'There are ghosts, and I can prove it. My Uncle Alastair was here one night on the full moon, just like tonight, mind you, when he realized he'd been out much longer than Aunt Mamie had said. So he tried to hurry back, and he took a shortcut through the old graveyard. As he was passing through, he felt something on his ankle, something that felt like a hand wrapped around, and he went crashing down. It was as if something was trying to use him to pull itself out of the ground. He gave whatever had him a few swift kicks, and when he finally he shook off what had him, he made a beeline for home.'

"Now, everybody else there at the pub, they all agreed that Uncle Alastair had been grabbed by something supernatural. But Tom was a stubborn man by nature, and he just shook his head. 'The only spirits that were in that cemetery were the ones that Alastair brought with him. He probably just tripped himself over a root or a marker.'"

At this the crowd buzzed with hushed laughter, each of them entranced by whatever she was saying, by even the slightest flick of her wrist as she gestured animatedly.

"By then Louie was really offended, as any man in his right mind would be after being called a liar. He pulled out his hunting knife, and he slammed that blade into the counter in front of Tom. 'Alrighty, Tom, why not put your money where your mouth is? If you're so brave, then you take my knife, you go to that cemetery tonight, and you put it in the ground in the very center of the place. We'll know if you were there or not.'

"Tom thought he had nothing to fear. Science had never proven there were ghosts, and he wasn't going to let Louie get to him, so he took the knife, and he set right out towards the cemetery with no fear in him."

At this point, Augusta pulled an uncertain face and spoke a little slower, voice wavering slightly. "But he got to the gate, and even though there was a full moon, it was still rather dark, and even Tom had to admit that it was a little unsettling. But he was not going to be called a coward, and so he pushed through the gate and right to the middle of that cemetery, and he bent down to put the knife in the ground.

"And then, everything got quiet. The frogs and the crickets stopped singing. The moon disappeared behind the cover of clouds, and a wave of fog rolled over the land."

A hush had fallen on both Tom's world and the ball, and the crowd collectively inched a little closer to hear the speaker, who had paused with her hand clutching an invisible knife.

"By then, Tom was good and spooked. He pulled out the knife, raised it in the air, and plunged it down into the earth. Except...well, he must have hit a root, or a rock, or something because—you see—that knife did not go into the ground. Well, Tom wanted nothing more to get out of there. He tried once—twice—thrice—four times before he managed to sink the knife deep into the dirt. He gave a cry of triumph and tried to jump up but—he couldn't move! Something had hold on the front of his coat!"

Goodnight felt the pounding in his chest, felt his heart speed up and his breath catch; he was ensnared by the lilt of her drawling voice, but he had no urge to free himself, even if his heart did give out.

"Tom cried out again, this time in fear. He grabbed onto his coat and tried to wrench off whatever had him, but try as he might, he was stuck, and stuck tight. His heart hammered in his chest. He just knew that he was going to be pulled into the ground and that it was time to meet his maker or the Devil. With one final tug, he fainted.

"Now, wanting to see if he actually followed through with it, the men from the bar had followed Tom and heard him a-tugging and a-yelling. When they stopped hearing Tom, they got a little worried and went to see what had happened. There was old Tom, out cold on the ground. They rushed to pick him up, but they too found that Tom was stuck. And then they began to laugh."

Giving them a sheepish grin, Augusta pulled her head into her shoulders. "You see, in his hurry, Tom had gotten a little reckless and accidentally put the knife through the lapel of his coat. The men pulled the knife out, and they carried Tom back to the bar, and to this day, Tom swears up and down on the existence of ghosts. The men at the bar never tell him any differently."

And then Augusta sat back and folded her hands on her lap, not seeming the least bit phased at the uproar of the partygoers. Goodnight let out a breath that he didn't know he was holding and heard Ames chuckle. When he glanced over to him, Ames was watching him with a smirk. "If you hurry, you can probably catch her. There's one last dance."

For once, Goodnight didn't mind that Ames was doing everything in his power to get him to dance. Any girl that could weave a yarn like that was one he wanted to know. With a hard swallow, Goodnight took a deep breath, straightened his cravat, and fixed his coat before making his way to the porch just as the music started. He quickened his pace to cut off Micah, who was headed in the same direction.

"Excuse me," he heard Augusta say to the ladies who were surrounding her when he caught her eye. Goddamn, his mouth was dry.

"Miss Augusta, I may have never danced with your sisters, but it would be an honor if I could do so with you." Inwardly Goodnight congratulated himself at not stammering, and even if she declined, he would be mostly happy that he'd just gotten his sentence out.

But he watched as her lips curved upwards, tentatively at first, as if trying to suppress it, and then all at once she was beaming, and he couldn't get enough. It could have been how the moonlight fell on her face, or the way her eyes crinkled, or maybe the way she said his name, but he realized that there was something about her that was right pretty. "It would be my pleasure, Mr. Robicheaux."