Proprietors were unlocking doors and raising curtains in the windows of their various establishments. A fish peddler, getting a jump on his competition, tooted his horn and cried his wares at the corner of Seventh. Another man staggered across the avenue from the Triangle—the area between Pennsylvania and the canal where whores, pickpockets, and gamblers abounded—and sang a song of drunken merriment. Hogs roamed the streets, sticking their noses in chamber-pot remains. Angry words sliced the air after two wagon teamsters avoided collision with the aid of divine intervention.

But Gideon, lost in thought, all but ignored the sights, the smells, the sounds of his newly adopted hometown. His mind was focused on his week of failure and the meeting scheduled this Friday morning. How could he explain to Alex the reasons for his lackluster work? As far as he could determine, he’d done everything correctly, used all the techniques he’d learned in the past two years, yet his portraitures fell well below Brady standards. Indeed, they were even well below the quality of his past work at Jericho’s. He was embarrassed by his first week’s output, and fearful he’d lose his job because of it.

When he’d studied his slipshod work from Monday, he’d passed it off as nothing more than nervousness of his first day in the employ of such a prestigious gallery. But when Tuesday’s, then Wednesday’s output appeared unimproved, he feared his personal problems had caused his lack of concentration. It wasn’t easy living with a man who hated him; as much as Briana denied it, Gideon knew Hyatt detested his presence. Even though he’d adhered to Hyatt’s rules for Briana’s sake, he also knew Hyatt was waiting for him to slip up, wished him to fail. And after viewing yesterday’s portraitures, and seeing no change in their quality, Gideon had begun to think that perhaps Hyatt would get his wish after all.

His stomach tightened as he approached the building. Well, he thought, at least his fate would be decided within the hour. He entered the structure, climbed the now-familiar staircase to the reception room, and came face-to-face with the ever-pretentious Jules Hardwicke.

“You’re here early,” Jules commented in his prissy manner. Gideon ignored him and lumbered across the room toward the second staircase. “Oh, but that’s right,” Jules continued behind him and snapped his fingers. “You have a meeting with Alex and couldn’t sleep, I suspect. Not with the day of truth here at last. I, on the other hand, slept like a babe knowing you will finally learn just how much”—a snicker— “talent you possess.”

The comment rankled. Gideon stopped dead in his tracks. He knew Jules also couldn’t wait to see him fail, but unlike Hyatt, Jules made no false pretense about it. Hands curling into fists, Gideon pivoted. He wanted to punch the smug look off Jules’ face, wanted to snatch his blue cravat and tighten it until the man’s eyes popped out of his head. But instead, he licked his lips, then stretched to his full height. “Jules, whatever happens to me, I want you to remember one thing.”

“Which is?” Jules asked, cocking his pomade-slickened head.

“I know where you work.”

Jules blanched. Hazel eyes turned fearful. His holier-than-thou expression evaporated.

Gideon sneered, then raced up the staircase, leaving the speechless man behind. Though he probably wouldn’t act on it, Gideon wanted the man to believe his shielded threat. Let’s see if you can sleep like a babe tonight, Pompous-ass! But Jules had made a valid point. The day of truth had arrived and, good or bad, Gideon would soon learn his destiny. Within moments, he reached the fifth floor and crossed its length to the office. He tugged at his collar, swallowed, and knocked.

“Come!” Alexander Gardner was sitting behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. Mounds of photographs lay before him—Gideon’s photographs. Alex smiled and gestured him to a seat. Gideon obeyed. “Well, Gideon,” Alex began after a moment of silence, “I have been studying your first week’s work. What do you have to say about it?”

Gideon squirmed in his chair. “It’s bad and—well—I don’t know where I went wrong.”

Alex pursed his lips. “Whether or not you are aware, I have been watching you over the past four days. Hiding in the shadows, so to speak. Do you care to hear my critique of your work?”

“Please,” Gideon said, his throat dry, his palms oozing perspiration. Here it comes—I’m fired.

“I think you show great promise.”

Ever since their initial meeting, the man never failed to surprise Gideon. Then it had been the question regarding the composites; now this. Yet Gideon couldn’t believe Alex found anything of value in the garbage covering his desk. “With all due respect, Alex—are you insane?”

Alex chuckled. “Though my dear wife, intelligent beyond her years, has ofttimes asked that very same question, I still believe the answer is ‘No.’ As I said, I have observed you at the camera and have reached some conclusions. May I continue without fear of being judged mentally unstable?”

Gideon blushed and nodded.

“Splendid,” Alex said with a smirk and searched through the stack of photographs. He plucked one off the desk. “I remember when you took this. I saw how you implemented adhesive wax to paste back this poor gent’s protruding ears. Look at the picture—the ears appear normal.” He rummaged and snatched up another photograph. “And this one—you correctly had the man place cotton in his mouth to puff out his sunken cheeks. Another fine trick.” He yanked still another photograph out of the mass and laughed. “And I well remember how you fought with this woman for five minutes regarding the use of gloves. She didn’t want to use them, but you persuaded her—quite tactfully, I might add—to place them over her long, bony fingers. And as you can observe, her hands look dainty and quite attractive.”

“Yes,” Gideon interrupted, “but I still don’t see what you think is good about them.”

“Oh, I didn’t say they were good. I said you showed promise. Overall, your composition is capital. Your focus is superb. You make wonderful use of props. And as I have stated, you seem to know all the ruses necessary to make our customers look their best. There is one thing, however, that is at fault. Do you know what that is?”

“My exposure time. I just don’t understand why all of them look bleached. I’ve played with the mirrors and curtains to adjust the light, every technique I’ve learned over the years, but nothing seems to work.”

“And where did you learn these techniques?”

“Why, Jericho’s Gallery, of course.”

A flicker of knowledge lit Alex’s eyes. “Tell me about Jericho’s? Not their method of operation, but the building itself.”

“The building?” Gideon shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Their studio. Describe it.”

“Well, it’s much like this one, although, not as large.”

“Same lighting?”

“Yes. Skylights. Mirrors and curtains and—” Gideon sighed in frustration. “Just like here.”

“Are you certain? What’s different about Jericho’s Gallery? Think of the building.”

Gideon wracked his brain. Alex sounded as if he had an inkling regarding the cause of the problem. Gideon closed his eyes and pictured himself working in Jericho’s—the light streaming in from the ceiling—the adjustment of the mirrors and curtains—yet nothing came to mind. The buildings housing the two studios were virtually identical, except for their size and their—

“Their height!” Gideon burst, his eyes opening.

Alex laughed, thumping his fist on the desk. “I knew with a little prodding you’d eventually reach that conclusion. How tall is Jericho’s building?”

“Just two stories.”

“And the surrounding structures?”

“On one side there was a three-story building, and on the other side stood a four-story.”

“And you are now sitting on the fifth floor of Brady’s Gallery and the buildings surrounding us are smaller.”

Gideon slapped his knee. “Damnation! I should have seen it before. I don’t need the same amount of exposure time.”

“Exactly. The sunlight in our studio is unobstructed. Very good, Gideon. Very good. All camera operators who have come to Brady’s after apprenticing elsewhere have had similar starts. You see, it’s not you. It’s the building.”

“Dear Lord,” Gideon muttered. “And all this time, I thought I had somehow forgotten my training.”

“Nonsense. Instead, you were learning a valuable lesson. And as I said before, apart from the lighting, the pictures are top quality.”

“Then I may continue working here?”

“As long as you can put up with my insanity,” Alex replied with a broad grin.

“Thank goodness.” Gideon suppressed a giggle when he imagined the look on the face of Jules Hardwicke after he discovered Gideon would continue working at the gallery.

Alex puffed on his cigar. “Do you like it here? Have any problems?”

“None,” Gideon replied promptly.

“Be honest.”

Gideon furrowed his brow in thought. “Well—apart from Jules—I have observed something else that causes me concern. The matter of credit.”

“I was waiting for you to come to that. It is a Brady practice, as you well know.”

“But it doesn’t seem fair. We were credited for our work at Jericho’s. Why should all of Brady’s camera operators have their work ascribed to Mr. Brady himself, even though he is nowhere around?”

“For quite some time I have argued that very point with Brady to no avail. Though I wholeheartedly empathize with you, I am in no position to alter the system. He pays our salary; we use his equipment; his prestige makes things happen. I suppose a man of his stature feels it’s customary to reserve the right to exhibit and sell our work under his own banner.”

“Well,” Gideon said, “I don’t think it’s fair, yet I suppose you do have a point.”

“Besides,” Alex said with a mischievous grin, “I’ll allow Brady that one demand, as long as he stays in New York City.”

“Forgive me for asking, but you don’t like Mr. Brady very much, do you?”

Alex chewed on his cigar. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. He was one of my earliest influences when I began to dabble in photography. I’ll never forget how impressed I was when I viewed his work at the Crystal Exposition of 1851. And he was the first man to give me a job when I entered this country five years later. But I will acknowledge, I do enjoy running this gallery as I see fit. In many ways, Brady and I are quite different.”

“How so?”

“For one, he doesn’t consider photography an art form. I do.”

“What does he consider it then?”

“Brady believes it to be utilitarian—an auxiliary to an artist. But I suppose that’s understandable, as he wanted to become a portrait painter in his youth.”

“So that’s why many of the Imperial portraitures hanging in this gallery are retouched in oils, almost like paintings?”

Alex nodded. “I, however, believe photography can be interpretive and creative in its own right.”

“I agree.”

“But that is now a minor issue betwixt Brady and myself. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Brady has stepped away from the camera.”

Gideon gestured to the daguerreotype-covered walls. “I thought many of these photographs were his?”

“Hardly. Brady’s eyesight is failing. Besides, his love for high society and being a part of the power and fashion in Gotham demands much of his time. No, he prefers hobnobbing with the rich and famous and leaves the task of camera operation to men like us. Therefore, his method of taking credit for photographs is unjust in many respects, but I do understand he has an image to uphold. After all, his name is what sells our work and keeps our salaries flowing. And working for him has done much for my own career. But enough about Brady—what other problems do you have working for this gallery?”

Gideon shrugged. “Other than that, I have no complaints.”

Alex pitched his cigar stub into the nearby cuspidor. His eyes clouded over as he fell into a moment of deep meditation. “I have a question to ask you, Gideon, and feel free to tell me to go to Hades if I’m out of line.”

“Something about photography?” Gideon asked, the familiar tension knotting his stomach.

“Indirectly. But I must warn you, the question is of a personal nature. And regardless of your answer, your response may lead me to ask another. I have done more than observe your work—I have also observed your character. I know you are a guarded man, resenting people who pry into your personal affairs, but I do need to know something. Might I ask?”

Gideon felt the invisible wall go up inside him. But at least Alex gave him the option to remain silent. “Ask.”

Alex finger-combed his bushy beard. “As I’m certain you’re aware, there is trouble brewing. Trouble for this country. This town, so Southern in its manners and peculiarities, is now a hotbed of dissension. I feel the upcoming elections will spark the flame of treason, which in turn will erupt in an armed conflict before the year is out. From what I know, you are from Maryland. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Maryland, in many respects, is part of the North. On the other hand, she, as well as Washington City, are areas where men are allowed to own other men. Now comes the true question—where do you stand on the debate? North or South?”

As images flashed through Gideon’s mind, his blood began to boil—images of his father’s murder; his mother’s death; his own injuries—brought on by nothing more than his father’s abolitionist stance and Gideon’s susceptible nature. Gideon gulped back his sudden anger and looked Alex in the eye. “The North! Wholeheartedly!”

Alex bobbed his head. “All right. Now then, your passionate response brings me to another question—what do you think you will do if this country goes to war? Will you take up arms and fight?”

“To be honest, Alex, I haven’t given it much thought. A part of me would very much like to do just that, but—” He pointed to his leg. Though it was the constant reminder of just how far some men would go to further their beliefs, the perpetual memento of his stupidity, the continual keepsake that mirrored the burning hatred in his heart, it was also the thing that might prohibit him from action on a field of battle. “I believe you can see how this might pose a problem. So to answer your question, I believe I simply do not know.”

A toothy smile creased Alex’s face. “Good. Good. Then you have not made a firm decision.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because, Gideon, I have a mind to accomplish something which has never before been attempted. Not only something that could change the way people look at the art of photography, but change the way they view war as well.” Alex rose from his chair and stood before the open window. Morning sunshine painted him in amber as he leaned on the sill, peering at the city. A mournful expression crossed his face. “I believe you are aware that many politicians on both sides of the issue are thirsting for blood. It’s like a game of one-upmanship—each side attempting to outdo the other with insults and provocation. And the citizenry are no better. Many good people across this country are even now happily choosing sides, dusting off their muskets and squirrel rifles and itching for a brawl. They are caught up in some grand illusion, both factions believing they will become a part of some majestic pageantry, and not giving a second thought to the fact that many a good man will forfeit his life in the process.”

“That is accurate, I suppose. But what are you saying?”

Alex turned from the window. He planted his large hands on the desk and leaned toward Gideon. His eyes came alive. “I say we show them what war is all about! I say we follow the armies and take photographs which will display the truth—the whole truth! Pictures of war’s carnage will do just that!”

“How is that possible?” Gideon asked. “How can we take this equipment on the road? The process is too cumbersome—too sensitive.”

“I’m working on those details,” Alex replied, tapping an index finger against his forehead. His look grew manic. “Besides, Britain’s Roger Fenton did take photographs during the Crimean War.”

Gideon was familiar with Fenton’s work. “But his shots were little more than depicting the baronial pomp of warfare. General officers posing like peacocks behind the scenes. A few photographs of weapons and such. We could achieve that in a studio.”

“Agreed. But my aim is for something else entirely. I believe there is a way to employ our craft and erase once and for all the illusion that war is glorious and magnificent. We will lay the truth of war on the very doorsteps of the politicians, the fire-eaters, the hotspurs, and their fawning admirers who are so passionately calling for blood. Of course, there is the off-chance the government will intervene before the situation reaches cataclysmic proportions, but frankly, President Buchanan is doing nothing. And word around town has it that many of his cabinet members are also talking treason.”

“True enough,” Gideon said. “I’ve been here only a few weeks, but I also sense the seditiousness in the air. And from what I can ascertain, the President is simply waiting for the election when he can pass the problem to his successor, whomever he may be.”

Alex sucked in a long breath. “I suppose all of this war talk is leading up to another question. If war becomes a fact, and ways can be devised, do you believe your affliction will pose a problem if it comes to travel? Do you think you will have the stamina to join me?”

Gideon rested back in his chair and thought over Alex’s outlandish proposal. Gideon’s love of photography stemmed from his belief that the picture never lied—you could trust the image before your eyes. And now, Gideon knew Alex felt the same. With his affliction, Gideon also knew he wouldn’t be able to bear arms and properly serve his country as a soldier. He wouldn’t be able to aid in stamping out the same slave-holding society ultimately responsible for destroying his family. But maybe he could do something for his country in another fashion. Maybe he could use his beloved craft to make his point and show the people of this nation, the entire world, the sins of man. The art of photography, though still in its infancy, had developed far enough to make Alex’s scheme plausible. And the determined look in Alex’s eyes told Gideon that if anyone could devise a plan, it was Alex. Indeed, the proposal sent a chill up Gideon’s spine.

“You want me?” Gideon asked, touched by the man’s apparent faith in him.

“Surprised? You are a gifted young man who has the potential to excel at his craft. You are also, if I am not mistaken, a hot-blooded man whose beliefs are not unlike my own. Well? Well?” Alex drummed his fist on the desktop. “What do you say? Care to partake in this history-making venture?”

Gideon rose from his chair and extended his hand. “It would be an honor to join you!”

“Good boy! Good boy!” Alex said, giving Gideon’s hand a fierce squeeze. “But say nothing to your co-workers until I can map out the specifics. I haven’t even mentioned this to Brady. But Timothy knows and has also accepted my proposition. You may talk to him about this, if you so choose.”

Alex was referring to another camera operator, a good-natured youth by the name of Timothy O’Sullivan. Gideon liked Timothy, and from what Gideon had observed, Timothy’s work was spectacular. Indeed, Gideon felt flattered to be invited along with such a master craftsmen. “I’ll say nothing,” Gideon pledged.

“Splendid! Simply splendid! Now it’s just a matter of waiting, then working out all the details and—”

A knock shook the door. Jules Hardwicke suddenly poked his head inside the office. His wide-eyed gaze fixed on the joined hands of Alex and Gideon. His jaw dropped; his face paled.

Eyes flaring, Alex stomped to the door. “How dare you enter my office without waiting for an invitation!”

Jules gulped. “I—I just wanted to say—to say—”

“Out with it!” Alex spat.

“An appointment is—is here.”

“And your point, Mr. Hardwicke?”

“It’s—it’s an appointment for Mr. Storm. Mrs. Greenhow. Did you want me to assign her to another camera oper—”

“Whatever for?”

Jules flinched. Indeed, he looked ready to jump out the window. Gideon couldn’t help but smile. “But—but I thought—”

Alex stuck his face up close to the cowering little man. “You are not paid to think, Mr. Hardwicke. You are paid to sit in the reception room and keep our customers happy. Is that understood? I will not have you reassigning appointments on the basis of what you think!” Alex huffed, then stood erect. “Now, escort Mrs. Greenhow upstairs and inform her that Mr. Storm will be ready for her momentarily. Off with you!”

Jules nodded and slammed the door behind him. Alex faced Gideon. “Featherbrained popinjay.”

“He’s not going on the road with us, is he?” Gideon asked, doing nothing to mask his amusement.

Alex tugged at his beard. “Well, we will need a mule to pull the wagon.”

Laughter burst from Gideon’s chest. He truly did enjoy working for this man—a man of vision—a man who possessed conviction in his medium.

Chuckling himself, Alex patted Gideon’s shoulder. “Now, lad, I believe you have an important sitting. Mrs. Greenhow is a leader in Washington society. Her deceased husband worked for the State Department and she is on speaking terms with men of power, including President Buchanan himself. Indeed, she is the aunt of Mrs. Stephen Douglas, and as you know, Senator Douglas is one of the candidates in the upcoming Presidential election. You mustn’t keep Mrs. Greenhow waiting.”

“And in spite of my past work, you will trust me to take this woman’s portrait?”

“Of course I will,” Alex replied with a generous smile. “I placed your name next to hers in the appointment book because I have faith in your work. Just remember the lesson you learned today regarding the exposure time. And we will talk later regarding my other proposal.”

“Yes, sir,” Gideon said, giving his employer a salute worthy of a general. He sped from the office, his stomach fluttering with excitement. Less than an hour earlier, he had thought he’d be searching for a job before the day was out. Instead, he was now ruminating over the possibilities of contributing to his art form in an extraordinary and history-making fashion. To be invited along on such an endeavor, by a man whom Gideon had come to respect both personally and professionally, seemed unfathomable.

Indeed, the past week had brought with it numerous blessings; first, the job in this gallery working for Alex; then a reunion with his friend, Seth Warburton. And now this. Gideon barely suppressed the urge to yell the news from the rooftops. But he wouldn’t. He’d given Alex his word. Heedful of his pledge, he decided he would talk about the proposition only with Timothy later that day. And perhaps he’d celebrate that evening with Seth. Until then, it would be business as usual.

Now, Jules appeared at the top of the staircase with a woman in tow. Gideon approached them and cleared his throat. Unable to hide the loathing in his eyes, Jules, nevertheless, forced a polite voice. “Mrs. Greenhow, this is the man who will take your photograph, Gideon Storm. Gideon, this is Mrs. Rose O’Neal Greenhow.”

The slender woman held out her lace-mitted hand. She wore a full hoop-skirt of black taffeta, garlanded along the hem with scarlet honeysuckle. Her silky hair, parted down the center, was gathered together in a red chenille snood. A warm smile creased her face; intelligent eyes twinkled with mirth. Though she was obviously in her forties, Gideon felt her to be as lovely as a woman half her age. He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and bussed her knuckle. She giggled. “Mr. Storm, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said, in a rich, almost flirtatious voice.

“And you as well, Mrs. Greenhow.” Gideon released her hand. “That will be all, Jules,” he ordered, unable to resist the impulse.

Jules flushed, shot him a murderous glance, then bounded down the staircase.

“Well, Mrs. Greenhow,” Gideon began, escorting the society lady to his work area, “what manner of photograph will you be wanting today?”

“Something simple, yet attractive, Mr. Storm.” She hesitated and touched his arm. “But then I’m certain, as a professional, you will use your best judgment.”

Gideon saw the look in her eyes. A definite check mark for Admiration! He beamed, not only because of her friendly manner, but also because of the word she had spoken. Professional. Yes, he was a professional. And thanks to Alexander Gardner and the faith the man had placed in him, he was finally beginning to feel like one as well.