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“Uhm, well, this is where I live,” Andrew said. “It’s the location of my business, too. So, if you’d ever like to sit for a portrait, feel free to come by. I’d love to have you as a client.” He clasped his hands to keep them from shaking. “Actually, before I leave and while we’re on the subject of clients . . . Do you think William might recommend my services to . . . other people? I know he seemed not to like the photograph he showed you, but—”

“He liked it,” Edwin said. “He and Agnes—she’s my sister—they’re . . . friends. He’d have only asked me to give her the print if he liked it.”

“Oh. I see. Well. Uhm. Good.”

The coachman opened up the carriage door to Andrew’s left.

“I think William will recommend your business, by the way,” Edwin said warmly. “Or his parents will, if not.”

Andrew smiled. Edwin smiled back.

The coachman began removing Andrew’s bags from the seat. And Andrew was struck with a small pang of sadness that his slightly stressful (but overall pleasant) time with Edwin the Nurseryman had come to an end.

***

Days later, Andrew was showing his final clients out of the boarding house when he began feeling as though he might collapse. Thankfully, business had been a bit better since he’d put out the flyers, but as a result, he found himself feeling exhausted by the hectic week.

After walking the family of four down the three flights of stairs of the boarding house, Andrew hurried back up to his studio, eager to clean up his solvents and finally relax. Feeling work-worn from the many photography sessions he’d held that day, Andrew sighed wearily before starting to put everything away. His leg muscles started to throb, his thighs and calves aching from his having been on his feet for hours and hours without reprieve. Once Andrew was finished, he nearly fell over when walking to his bedroom across the hall.

Andrew’s room was considerably smaller than his studio, only large enough to fit an oak armoire, a small table with chairs, and a bed. Luckily, with the building being a boarding house, this proved to be sufficient, for Andrew took his meals on the first floor, where there was a small bathroom for him to use as needed, too. And Mrs. Meyer laundered some of his clothing each month for a small fee as well.

With a forceful exhale, Andrew slumped onto the mattress and rolled onto his back. Folding his hands atop his chest, he let his exhaustion wash over him. It rippled through him, making his skin tingle while his muscles burned. But even once he felt the full weight of the week’s work pressing down on him, he still couldn’t relax enough to fall asleep. Instead, as the sun sank closer to the horizon, Andrew continued to stare into oblivion, watching the orange light slowly fade from the room. Darkness crept in, first enveloping the space and then settling in Andrew’s mind, the shadows of his past making sleep even more elusive than it usually was. He’d become overtired, it seemed, which never failed to unearth the pain of having lost his former life.

After several more minutes of wallowing in a somewhat melancholic state, Andrew sat up and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He needed to do something to pull his thoughts out of his memories and back into the present. Perhaps he could rearrange the sitting area a little over in the studio. He must have missed dinner by now, and there wasn’t much else he could do at this hour. Thankfully, the floor below him was still vacant. Consequently, he wouldn’t have to worry about bothering another tenant by switching around the sofa and chairs, even this late in the evening.

Andrew stood. When he took a step, his big toe slammed into the metal foot of the bedframe. Pain shot up his leg, and he nearly cried out as he sank to his knees.

Kneeling on the floor, he cursed under his breath as he waited for the pain to subside. He hated being so clumsy. When was the last time he’d made it through a whole week without either breaking something or injuring himself? He couldn’t even remember.

Pressing his palms to the hardwood, Andrew moved to stand, but then something under the bed caught his eye—a wooden case covered in red leather, with a vine and floral pattern on its front. Andrew’s stomach tightened as he leaned forward and reached for it. He thought he’d stored it away in the back of his armoire. But of course he hadn’t. Knowing himself, he probably hadn’t packed it right when he’d moved, and the thing had fallen out of his luggage when he’d first arrived here.

Despite his current melancholy, Andrew opened the case, spitting in the face of both self-preservation and common sense, as he was often want to do. His heart clenched the moment the portrait became visible in the low light of the barely burning oil lamp on the wall. A proud-looking man wearing a handsome smirk and a large bowtie stared back at him, his image perfectly preserved on the glass plate. In an instant, Andrew was transported back to his family’s home, to his childhood home, to his home that was no longer home, and he recalled the many afternoons he’d spent there with his closest friend. He’d been so much happier then. Happier and more naïve. How silly it had been for him to think that, even though society on the whole had a narrow-mind and a shallow heart, those closest to him would not.

Slowly, Andrew closed the lid of the ambrotype. He stood up, winced from the still-lingering pain in his big toe, and walked over to the armoire. After a bit of rummaging, Andrew located the only other personal photograph he owned—the one of himself with his parents and siblings (though he couldn’t bring himself to open that one)—and placed the case containing Theodore’s photograph with it.

As Andrew moved to shut the door, he heard a knock. Inhaling a quivering breath, he went to see who it was but paused in front of a hanging mirror on the way. Andrew grimaced when he saw his reflection. His face was pale, and his eyes were large and filled with unmistakable sorrow. He attempted to scrub the heartbreak off his face, literally massaging his skin with his palms. Once he felt confident that he had managed to force some color back into his cheeks, he answered the door.

“Good evening, Mrs. Meyer,” Andrew said, faking a smile. He reached into his pocket. “I have the money for this month. And for last month. I’m sorry for being late on that. Business was slow. But it’s better now. I had some flyers printed.”

He sounded flustered, didn’t he? Mrs. Meyer was sure to know that something was amiss.

In an attempt to prevent himself from blurting out more anxiety-laden words, Andrew physically stilled his tongue by pressing it to the back of his front teeth and then smiled harder as he handed Mrs. Meyer the wad of money she was owed.

“Do you suppose business will stay steady for a while?” she asked.

With a brief shake of his head, Andrew shrugged. “I have no way of knowing. Photographs are nice to have, but only so many families in Albany are interested in sitting for them. Some clients—especially ones with children—I can convince to come back once or twice a year. But many people can’t afford it, even if they like the idea. I’ve been trying to cultivate a presence in some of the wealthier neighborhoods, though. Like Mansion. And Ten Broeck. But other than the Whitneys, no one with even a whiff of real money has hired me yet. They probably want photographs taken in their homes. Which, well, I can’t blame them for.”

Mrs. Meyer hummed. “And you can’t help with that because that sorry wagon of yours began falling apart. Is that right?”

“Yes.” Andrew lowered his head. “It is.”

Mrs. Meyer nodded thoughtfully a couple of times, her barely-there gray brows furrowing. Andrew swept his foot across the floor in front of him.

“Couldn’t you rent a carriage on occasion?” Mrs. Meyer asked.

“It would be too expensive,” Andrew admitted. “Expensive for me, anyway.”

Mrs. Meyer hummed some more.