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“It’s nice that you and Edwin have each other,” he said softly.

“It is,” William agreed. “You and Edwin could become friends, too, you know. Edwin’s a nice man. He can be a little . . . shy isn’t the right word. Reserved, maybe? But he’s fun once he feels comfortable.”

Heat rushed to Andrew’s cheeks. Hopefully the faint orange light from the saloon’s oil lamps would conceal his blush.

“He does seem nice,” Andrew confirmed. “I, uhm, I’m having a hard time reading him, though. Sometimes, it feels like . . .” Like we like each other, he thought, though he quickly continued with something much less scandalous. “Like he enjoys talking with me. But then other times, he’s . . . well, he pulls back.”

William hummed and had some more beer.

“Yes, that sounds like Edwin.” William pursed his lips. He strummed his fingers on the countertop for a couple of seconds. “I wish I knew what to tell you. Don’t take it to heart, though. It isn’t because of you or anything you did. Trust me.”

Andrew let his eyes fall to the counter. He highly doubted that.

“Let’s talk about happier things,” William said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Do you think you’ll need anything for the ball? I’m happy to help however I can. Our family has a new tailor now, after Edwin’s father passed. His prices are reasonable, though my father isn’t as fond of the man from a personal perspective. Still, if you need a suit, just say the word. Or, if you want to borrow the carriage again to transport your equipment, I’m sure that can be arranged as well.”

“No, I, uhm, I can afford transportation now. I’ve been making some extra money lately. I can’t think of anything else I might need, either, though I wish that there was a simpler way to take photographs outside my studio. It’s difficult to have to lug everything around, even if I’m able to rent a carriage myself now.”

“I can only imagine,” William replied. “Perhaps they’ll invent something better one day.”

They smiled at one another.

“Perhaps,” Andrew echoed.

It was so nice to finally have a friend again.

***

Sitting across from Mrs. Meyer, Andrew was wringing his hands as she poured them both some tea. Only fifteen more minutes remained before Andrew needed to leave for the Whitney Estate. Earlier in the day, Andrew had secured a carriage and a horse from the closest livery stable, and now everything he needed for the photography session (that could withstand the frigid winter temperature) was waiting for him in inside the carriage’s cabin.

Mrs. Meyer had insisted that Andrew have some tea with her before he left, promising him that the beverage might help calm his nerves.

“May I ask why you’re so uneasy about the ball?” she asked as she set the teapot down on the table.

She handed him a cup of tea, and the porcelain rattled against the saucer.

“I’ve never worked a private event like this before,” Andrew said, though of course that wasn’t the only reason for his nervousness, even if it was the largest one.

Some of Andrew’s unease about the ball could have been explained by one horrible, wonderful, frightening, exhilarating realization.

Edwin Beasley might be there.

Andrew’s stomach swooped at the thought, and a flurry of questions began to flit through his mind. Would he and Edwin talk? Would Edwin sit for another portrait? Would Edwin look even more magnificent in evening attire? Could such a thing even be possible?

Andrew’s cheeks warmed as the image of Edwin sitting in one of the high-backed chairs in his studio burst into his mind. Even now, Andrew could recall every single beautiful detail about the scene. It was as though the moment he had removed the lens cap from his camera, Edwin’s exceedingly handsome face had become instantaneously fixed in his brain, its permanence and clarity more immediate and long-lasting than even the photograph itself.

Over the last several weeks, Andrew had thought of those fifteen or so seconds constantly. He’d been bewitched by them. Or, rather, by Edwin himself, the specter of the man’s portrait haunting Andrew’s every waking thought.

And now, Andrew might see him again.

Andrew fumbled with the saucer, causing tea to splash over the cup’s brim, some of which landed on his pant leg. At least the fabric was black, so the tea probably wouldn’t be visible by the time he arrived at the estate.

Mrs. Meyer looked at him with a sympathetic (and slightly pitying) smile.

“Everything will go well,” she reassured him. “I know it.”

“I hope so,” Andrew said through an exhale.

He took a sip of his tea. In an obvious effort to take his mind off of the ball, Mrs. Meyer began regaling him with a story of the first time she’d sat for a photograph, way back in 1846. And, oh, was Andrew ever thankful for it.