For the record, I've been posting this on Ao3 more than I have .
Billy: Winter 1877
Augusta: Christmas 1858
Fun Fact: Christmas trees really began gaining popularity in the U.S. beginning in 1850. I'm not sure how it would have spread by 1858, but since things come slowly to the South, I'm going to say it hasn't reached New Orleans yet.
I'm ready for war.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mag7. I wish I did, but I don't.
"Did you know I was at Chantilly," Goodnight asks, tired of the quiet. There's snow littering his hat and his shoulders, and he pulls his arms closer to his body. Beauty of the snow be damned, he hates the cold. He's old, and the sharp weather makes his joints ache, and goddamn it all, he's a Southerner; home was never this cold, especially not to the point where there was snow.
The time he'd seen the snow—at least, the only time before the world had completely turned upside down—he had been too far from home, huddled around a fire sharing a single, worn blanket.
"Do tell," Billy answers slowly, copying a phrase he's heard Goodnight say often, likely glad Goodnight has moved on finally from griping about the temperature. Out of the two, Billy, with his quiet displeasure, weathers the cold much better, though his scowl is deeper than usual. They're both ready to be boarded up somewhere out of the wind with a mug of something steaming in their hands.
"General Philip Kearny led Union forces there. Took a bullet through the hip that left through his shoulder, and he died before we could find out if Lincoln was going to replace McClellan with him. One of the worst storms I've ever been in finally put a halt to the fighting there. Lucky for them, too," Goodnight adds. Chantilly had been the beginning of true hell, but at the time, he'd been almost fond of the area for sounding like it should be a plantation back in Louisiana.
Ahead of them, lights twinkle in the growing dusk, and the town of Santa Fe, New Mexico, comes into view. It's not quite as warm or sunny as Goodnight would like to spend his winter, but they won't be completely freezing here, and if they run low on funds, more shouldn't be hard to come by. The railroad is also within their reach should they decide to go farther south, though they usually avoid trains, given Billy's history.
Once, for a brief time, Santa Fe had flown a Rebel flag. "Ol' General Kearny had an uncle who fought here," he says, "back in the war with Mexico."
The war with Mexico, where his grandfather had fought and where his grandfather had reaped a reputation to uphold. The war with Mexico, where more problems were gained than solved.
Sam pulled his coat tighter around him and watched the cloud puff from his mouth as he exhaled. Mr. Goodnight was a lot of things, but he'd never thought senseless was one of them. Yet here they were, inspecting trees in the middle of the day, both of them toting axes on their shoulders. He'd explained in his roundabout terms why they were searching for a tree, but Sam still didn't quite understand.
"What do you think about this one?" Mr. Goodnight expected the fir with his hands on his hips, one jutted to the side and eyes narrowed in thought. He didn't wait for Sam's response before he shook his head. "No, this one is not fitting at all, too scrawny to sit there in the parlor. Our tree needs to be a belle too."
Sam wanted to tell him that it would not be scrawny once they were getting it back to the house, but he kept his mouth shut and let him keep looking.
As irritable as she was, it could not be said that Valentine was not a dedicated worker when she put her mind to something. Goodnight had given her a bowl of cranberries, a needle, and thread, and told her to string the berries, and while she'd told him he didn't have the sense God gave a goose, she'd plopped down in front of the fireplace to hog the warmth and done as he'd asked…or commanded, but he'd done so nicely. In the length of time since then, she had a trail of cranberries spanning across the floor and was currently threading the berries one right after the other. Augusta lounged the length of the sofa, stringing her own bowl of popped corn and feeding it onto the floor; she'd been kinder than Valentine in her response but uncertain nonetheless, and the glance she'd given him from beneath her lashes hadn't gone unnoticed. But if she'd been asked her to do it, then by golly, Augusta would do it.
"Why am I doing this again," Valentine asked, smirking but not saying a word when she glanced at Goodnight and Beau.
"We have to decorate the tree Goody was kind enough to bring us," Mrs. Robicheaux replied with only mild mockery, smirking while she knitted, and Valentine turned up her nose at the fir tree standing in the corner of the parlor, which Goodnight did not appreciate. He and Sam had spent a good half hour trying to get the thing from the wagon to the parlor, and it was all because Goodnight wanted to show them how they'd celebrated in Charleston. The least they could do was not act like he'd tracked mud all over their clean floors.
"How about we get this done before the terrors arrive," Augusta sighed, referring to her sisters, who were coming to Foxsong to celebrate Christmas and Valentine's wedding. "And don't worry, Val, we'll have it out of here before the wedding."
"Perhaps I'd like to show off our decorations," Goodnight teased, though he knew good and well that was a battle he'd already lost. Christmas pacified Valentine into affability, but even Christmas would not put her in a good enough mood to let any part of her wedding be threatened.
"Then you may give them a tour of the paintings," Augusta quipped back. Goodnight opened his mouth to tell her most of the guests had already seen their paintings, but he closed it when she gave him a look that said, I have enough to worry about without Val fussing over a tree.
"Yes ma'am," he agreed with a smile, which Augusta mirrored before quietly returning to her work. Watching her, Goodnight knew that, after days spent fretting over Valentine's wedding and her sisters, she was glad to have a mind-numbing task.
Which meant that Goodnight probably should not have done what he did.
He was playing with Beau on the floor, loading and unloading all his little wooden animals from their ark, pushing the silver train with Beau's name on it around, making sure he didn't fall off the rocking horse—Augusta had yet to ever be violent, but he was not going to test his luck—when his son took one look at Augusta's garland and crawled over to it. He had done the same to his Aunt Valentine's, but she had shooed him away before he caused any harm. With no regard for what his mother was doing, Beau seated himself under the garland, and before Goodnight could stop him, ripped off a piece of corn and popped it into his mouth. With a grimace and a lunge for Beau, Goodnight waited for Augusta to say something, but she didn't seem to notice her son merrily chomping on her work.
Beau grinned up at him, and Goodnight couldn't help but smile…or blame Beau for wanting a taste.
Leaning against the sofa, Goodnight situated Beau in his lap, picking off one piece for Beau and one piece for himself, while Augusta hummed "Silent Night" softly, unaware that her husband and son were making a Penelope of her. Beau snatched each piece with a slimy, chubby hand, and Mrs. Robicheaux, catching Goodnight's eye, merely smirked again and kept knitting.
When Goodnight held out the next piece to Beau, his son turned his rosy little face up to him with an expression that made Goodnight think Beau knew they were not behaving, and he couldn't help but chuckle and kiss the top of his head.
"You know, I really don't—" Augusta's voice snapped Goodnight out of his moment with Beau, and both glanced up with wide eyes to find her slack-jawed and glaring at them. "Hey!"
She pulled the garland from their grip, eliciting a scowl from Beau, to which she said, "Oh, don't you give me that look, Beauregard Robicheaux. You two…"
Unaccustomed to hearing his mother scold him even gently, Beau whipped his head around as if to ask Goodnight for help, though he could only shrug. "Son, I'm in as much trouble as you."
The other two families of the Evercreech sisters, as well as their parents, had already arrived and settled themselves when the sleek black Saucier carriage finally rumbled down the lane and up to Foxsong's entrance. With Oceane and Anastasie, as well as all their children, in the house and Valentine seated at the piano, none of them knew the final sister had arrived until she swayed into the parlor with an expression that read she would rather be in Dante's final circle than having to spend the holiday with her family. Half a step behind her trotted Dorian, looking a mix of frustrated and harried, one hand holding onto their older daughter and carrying the younger in his other arm. Her gaze sweeping over the room and effectively silencing it, Salome's eyes landed on the tree, and her eyebrow shot up as she scowled.
Goodnight and Augusta had risen to greet them, but Goodnight, with his hand stuck out to shake Dorian's, was stopped in his tracks by Salome's icy, "Augusta, there's a tree in your parlor."
She could have very well have been saying, "Augusta, get this filth off me."
As Goodnight opened his mouth to respond, Salome rounded on him accusingly. "You…" And with that, she was sweeping from the room, Dorian giving them an apologetic look, and she called over her shoulder, "Mammy will show me to a room."
While the room sat in silence, adjusting themselves to Salome's presence, Goodnight caught Valentine's eye, and, smirking, she mouthed, Such a joy. Goodnight mouthed back for her to stop it, and she giggled to herself, spinning on the bench to face the piano again. Next to him, Augusta sighed, and he put a hand on the small of her back to guide her to where they'd been seated on the sofa. "Darlin', I don't think she liked our tree."
"Goody, I'm not sure I like our…parlor tree," Augusta conceded. Goodnight flopped onto the sofa and threw his hands into the air.
"This is the thanks I get for trying to bring a little culture into the house."
Augusta frowned, and in her eyes, he read, You didn't bring culture, silly, you brought a tree.
"Well, Goody, I like the parlor tree," Valentine said over her shoulder. "If Salome doesn't like it, maybe she won't come in here."
"Stop it, Val," he said, but not before he could wipe the smile off his face; he didn't feel half as bad when Augusta hummed in amusement.
Valentine tossed her pretty head, and Goodnight swore he heard her mutter under her breath, "If only Oceane didn't like it."
Like usual, Ames and Mathilde made themselves heard before they were seen, arriving just before dinner with enough ruckus to overshadow the three sisters. How they'd been able to be convinced to attend Christmas eve dinner with the Evercreech family was beside Goodnight, but he expected Augusta hadn't told Mathilde that her family would be in attendance, and judging by the look on the other couple's faces when they opened the door, his theory was probably right.
"Augusta, you fibber, I can hear them," Mathilde fussed in the doorway, nose flaring, and she held Augusta at arm's length when Augusta tried to hug her.
"I don't know how—"
"You said they wouldn't be here, Augusta, and I can hear them," Mathilde insisted.
"We should be more worried if we couldn't hear them. And besides, we had to have you here. It isn't Christmas without family." Mathilde's scowl wavered until she gave in and hugged her friend, muttering something into Augusta's ear that made her tip her head back with laughter and kiss Mathilde's cheek.
Behind his wife, Ames hopped from foot to foot, and when a sudden gust of wind threatened to blow off his hat, he hurriedly snatched at it with one hand and pulled his coat, which was oddly misshapen and wiggling, tighter around him. "Damn it, Mattie, can you go inside? I'm growing icicles on my—"
"Yes, yes, hush up," Mathilde snapped playfully, though she moved aside to let him in. They'd no sooner closed the door than she was tugging at his arm. "Oh! Show them our gift, Ames."
"I'm trying," Ames huffed, though he was focused more on lighting his cigar. Goodnight watched him fumble, hands gloved, with his match before he took it from him and struck it. Ames nodded his thanks, and then set about to removing his layers. He peeled off his gloves and scarf, then his overcoat, and Augusta cried out in surprise.
"Ames!" she gasped as a furry little head popped out of Ames's vest. Shaking itself off, velvety red ears flopping erratically, it turned its droopy eyes up to Ames as if to ask what had happened.
"Isn't he pretty? Thought he'd make a perfect gift for Beau—look, we wrapped him up and everything," Ames chattered as he pulled the puppy from his vest to show off the silver bow they'd tied around its neck.
While his wife cooed at the gift, coddling it to her chest, Goodnight rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Only Ames would have thought a puppy would make an ideal gift for a child who still couldn't get the hang of walking on his own and whose vocabulary mainly consisted of "no" and "Mama." He looked back to the puppy, glancing sleepily around the foyer of Foxsong, and couldn't help but smile at its little wrinkled face and oversized feet, remembering his father's hound that he'd grown up with.
"We do only have hunting dogs, Goody, and he looks just like an Othello," Augusta said when she caught his eye, her big eyes turned up to him imploringly, and Goodnight knew he was sunk. He reached out to scratch the floppy ears; those had always been his favorite part of a hound.
"One of these days I'm going to learn to say no to you," Goodnight muttered, going with a playful scowl to fetch Beau.
Billy is good at many things. He can nurse anything back from the brink of death, and when they have the time, ingredients, and good fortune, he makes a mean bowl of chili—though it's nothing in comparison to the jambalaya that Goodnight occasionally whips up, in his personal opinion. He can walk like a ghost and hit a target with his knife before anyone realizes it's left his hand. But one thing Billy is not good at? Any sort of card game.
Hell, he can't even hold them right.
Despite being hopeless, Billy never flat-out refuses to play even though Goodnight knows there are plenty of other things that he'd likely rather be doing, but on winter nights like these, when their options are to stay inside or catch frostbite, Billy is usually a bit more willing to play.
Billy lays on his side across the bed, propped up on his elbow and every pillow in the room, while Goodnight sprawls diagonally across the bed and rests against Billy's legs, the cards in the space between them, both men keeping warm with sweet cider from the little landlady and the blankets stolen from the other bed. Perhaps it's the cider—Billy would drink the town dry of it if he had the money—but the younger man is in high spirits. It could also be that he's won a game.
His pair, the last one available, slaps onto the bed, and Billy says something that sounds like he's congratulating himself in Korean. Goodnight can't help but laugh, tossing down his joker, and leans his head back on Billy's legs.
"Let's play again," Billy insists with a giant grin, already gathering up the cards in his awkward hands.
"Play again? Are you sure you'd like to test your luck? That makes one in…let's see, the last time you won was back in Flatlake, and that was in March—"
Billy slams the deck down in front of Goodnight so that he can shuffle—the last time Billy did it, they'd lost two cards and ripped another—still smiling away. "What else are we going to do?"
"I don't know about you, Mr. Rocks, but 'm content right here."
"Goody," Billy growls, still with a smirk, "I'll shuffle these cards if you don't sit up."
Goodnight stretches his arms above his head, shoulder popping loudly—he's really getting too old—and then raises himself back up. "You're leaving me with no other option, then, Billy."
When Goodnight went to fetch a bottle of cognac, he did not expect to find the library occupied. His nephew Theodore, Anastasie's oldest, stood in front of one of the tall shelves, fingers skimming over each of the books so lightly it was as if he was afraid they would catch fire at his touch. He jumped when he heard Goodnight enter, jerking his hand back violently as if the books really had caught fire.
"Son, you keep jumping like that, and people are going to think you're up to no good," Goodnight said, paused in the doorway and unable to suppress a grin. "What are you doing in here? We're all playing games in the parlor."
Not that he could blame the boy from wanting to escape his aunts.
"S-sorry, Uncle Goodnight. My parents don't like to read, and you just have more books than I've ever seen," Theodore stammered, dropping his gaze but still trying to look at the shelves.
Of course they didn't like to read. Anastasie was as dull as paint. If she hadn't been so comely, he would have thought she was altogether forgettable, and her husband's idea of a riveting conversation topic was economics; a book would do them both some good. But her son was old enough that he could still be saved from her clutches. Grin widening, Goodnight crossed to where the boy was, saying, "You like to read?"
"When I can," he answered, turning his face back up with a mix of hesitation and wonder.
He has a reader's description, Goodnight thought, taking in the boy's owlish eyes behind a pair of octagonal eyeglasses and waifish stature. He moved to a different shelf and scanned the contents. "Have you read any Mother Goose?"
"I don't know who that is."
Goodnight started to pull the book from its place when he thought about Theodore, pale and looking like he was likely subjected to bedrest on a regular basis. He imagined him confined to his bed, watching through the window as his brothers played with neighboring children, acting out scenes of Indian raids or fighting off alligators in the backyard bayou. No, Mother Goose would not do. "I have a better idea. Perhaps you've heard of Defoe?"
Again, Theodore shook his head, and Goodnight smiled to himself as he picked the book he wanted, feeling very clever. "This is Robinson Crusoe. It was a favorite both myself and your Aunt Augusta when we were growing up."
"Aunt Augusta," Theodore breathed, eyes widening as he looked up at Goodnight with nothing less than awe. "Aunt Augusta reads?"
"Why do you think I married her?" If Augusta hadn't been the favorite aunt already, she had certainly earned the title now. Goodnight held out the book, which Theodore hesitated to take. "Go on, now, I doubt you could hurt it."
"I don't know if I can finish it by tomorrow."
"Well, there's thirteen days before Epiphany. Think you can finish it by then?"
"Thank you, Uncle Goodnight," he whispered, still with the book held out in front of him.
"I think we're acquainted enough that I can be Uncle Goody, don't you? I don't see any reason why we can't speak like men." At Theodore's beaming smile, which pushed his glasses further up his nose, Goodnight patted his shoulder and moved to get the bottle of cognac from the desk. "Now let's get back to the party. We wouldn't want to miss any of your Aunt Oceane's antics, now would we?"
As he closed the door behind them, Goodnight couldn't help but ask, "Theodore, what do you think of our Christmas tree?"
"That thing in the parlor?"
As the adults tried to have a civil, decent conversation, the children had been playing noisily in the corner of the parlor with Othello, and their sudden silence was ostensibly suspicious. Anastasie's boys were grimacing and wide-eyed, their cousin Posie looking pointedly at the floor, and Beau couldn't have cared less with what was going on, his arms around Othello's neck while the puppy squirmed, lapping at his chin. Without a word, every adult studied their offspring, but nothing seemed out of place.
But it didn't come as a great surprise when Theodore's face was bare.
"Where are your eyeglasses," Anastasie asked, raising her head to look down her nose, suddenly losing just a bit of her beauty. She had mastered the art of passivity and knew just how to weild it to make her recipient feel terrible, but it seemed that even she grew annoyed by her skill until it built up and her aggressiveness came tumbling out at once. And if it hadn't been building all night…Bracing for the explosion, Goodnight gripped his glass of liquour tighter and glanced to Augusta, who closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.
"W-we—they f-f-fell," he stammered, and Goodnight likened the boy to a turtle drawing back in its shell at the sign of danger. He sent his best wishes.
And then came the explosion.
"You've broken them, haven't you? Théodore, that's the second pair! When are you going to learn to be more responsible with your things, or are you just too daft to understand—"
"Ana," Augusta scolded without much harshness, tensing like everyone else at her sister's words, holding out her arm to Theodore. "That's enough!"
"Honestly. There's no need to be a bitch about," Salome snapped, tossing her head, her grey eyes flashing in triumph. She'd been too mild since her arrival, and while she would have undoubtedly liked to have lashed out at Oceane, the opportunity to fight had just fallen right on the floor and she would not be picky.
"Sal…" Dorian scolded, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had neither the energy nor patience to deal with another Evercreech sister argument.
"I beg your pardon," Anastasie barked, now on the defensive, scowling between Salome and Augusta. "We all know the only bitch here is you, Sal—"
"Oh, I won't deny it," Salome shrugged offhandedly, a self-righteous smirk on her beautiful lips. Salome would never allow anyone the satisfaction of insulting her.
Face twisting nastily, Anastasie opened her mouth with what could only be another scalding remark, but Augusta cried, "I said enough! There are children here, and it's Christmas, for heaven's sake. Peace and good will, you two. Now Ana, I think you made your message perfectly clear, and I didn't need your help, Sal."
Salome had the gall to look offended.
Goodnight watched with fondness as his wife petted the nape of her oldest nephew's neck, wiping away his tears with her other hand, and decided the ordeal had gone on long enough.
"He's my son," Anastasie insisted, as if that changed things.
"And you're in my house," Goodnight said, firm but quiet, in complete opposition to the strident voices the women had utilized. All heads swiveled to him. "Son, come here and bring me your eyeglasses."
Reluctantly, Theodore left his aunt's side and shuffled over to where his discarded glasses still lay, and Goodnight urged gently, "Go on, get the lead out of your boots. I'm not mad."
He sat down on the sofa next to Augusta and held the glasses up to his face. The right lens had a mighty fine crack running up the side, and the bridge of the nose was warped. "Well, son, it looks like we'll be able to smooth them back out, but you'll have to wait on the lens. Now dry your eyes, there's no harm done."
"No harm done," Anastasie scoffed, and Goodnight looked over his nephew's shoulder to her.
"I'd rather have something wrong with the spectacles than his eye, wouldn't you? If my mama had lectured me over every little thing I broke, I reckon she'd still be going. He's a boy, Anastasie, and breaking things is what boys do best. I guarantee you that the minute I start caring about any of the things in this house will be the minute Beau breaks it."
Though nothing else was said, Anastasie glowered at him, and Salome glowered at Anastasie, and Augusta stared down Oceane as though daring her to make a peep. Theodore sniffed and took back his eyeglasses.
"Well. I do believe it is story time, Aggie," Ames said, glacing around the room with an expression that said he was very much enjoying the show indeed. Though it was a relief to have a change in subject, Goodnight thought it was only because his friend enjoyed Augusta's stories more than he did.
With a grateful glance towards him, Augusta shot to her feet and skittered towards a side table where a familiar thin book lay, its cover worn and beloved. "Thank you, Ames, that's a grand idea. I know this isn't an original, but this is my Christmas favorite," Augusta said, settling onto the sofa. She fixed her skirts about her, and the children nestled at her feet, wide-eyed and eager, knowing their aunt's claim to fame.
She flipped open the book, cleared her throat quietly, and in her narrator's voice read, "'Stave One. Marley was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.'"
When Goodnight passed through the boudoir to Augusta's room that evening, his wife was scowling at her reflection in the vanity, still completely dressed and with her hair pinned up. Augusta had sent Mammy away just after dinner since it was Christmas, and Goodnight had readied himself for bed under the assumption that Augusta was doing the same in her room. Yet there she was, not even a single pin released from her hair. "You haven't made any headway at all."
"I just can't believe she did that," she muttered without paying him any mind, and, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, he didn't know whether to be amused or inclined to agree with her over Anastasie's outburst. "She was always fussy and particular, but she was never downright cruel. And honestly, even Salome agreed it was too far. Oh, they make me so angry. Christmas is a time for family, but why would anyone want to be with them when they act that way? Why do I even invite them into our home if they're just going to be pains in our necks? I never want them here again, Goody, that's for sure. After the wedding, they are not coming back."
"You need some help with your dress?"
Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, Augusta spun on her stool with her mouth pressed in a thin line, and her hands flew up to her hips. "And just what is your hurry about," she huffed, but it lacked anger with him, and his jaw trembled in attempt not to laugh at her, lest he make her truly mad. He moved to stand behind her.
"Down girl," Goodnight murmured into her ear with a chuckle, kissing her temple as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. When Augusta didn't seem pacified by his actions, he lowered his lips from her temple to her jaw. "Lower your hackles, darlin'. There's no need for you to be in such a tizzy anymore."
She hummed in reply, craning her neck to give him better access, and then said, "Goody? I like the parlor tree you brought."
Goodnight kissed her square on the lips before he reached to let down her hair. "Merry Christmas, Gus."
"Augusta was good at cards."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, hell yeah, best cheater our side of the Mississippi," Goodnight scoffs, feeling rather than seeing Billy's smile. Or maybe he just knows it's there. He turns over an ace and moves it above the rest of his piles, oddly content with his game of Patience against Billy's legs. Billy had lost the next four games and retired before he owed Goodnight an entire pack of cigarettes, and now he has resigned to watching Goodnight play. "She could count them, and when she didn't do that, you'd never see her slip a card up her sleeve. But the thing is, she was so good at cards that when she won, we didn't know if she'd cheated or not. Part of the game was trying to catch her red-handed."
At his next thought, he chuckles lowly. "Ames always tried to cheat too, but, well, Gus was a bit brighter than him."
Goodnight observes the cards in front of him and contemplates his next move while Billy downs the last bit of the cider.
Nineteen years ago, if someone had told Goodnight that eventually he would be spending winters playing cards in nameless boarding houses with a Korean man, he would have laughed in their face and thought they were out of their mind. How could they ever say such a thing when he had a pretty little wife and hearty son and a beautiful estate? Nestled by the fire, reading to his children or grandchildren, snug in wool bedclothes and tucked under a pile of quilts—that was the only way he'd ever spend his winters.
And yet here he is, and he thinks, glancing up to find Billy interestedly watching the cards, that if he can't spend his winters like he imagined, this isn't a bad way to spend them.