Mrs. Simmons leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That may not be as strange as you think. My husband liked studying the history of different medicines. Gin is derived from genever, which was a tonic and medication used in the Low Countries for centuries. It was said to be good for fever and digestion, among other things. The drink we call gin comes from that and the ingredients are similar.”

“I didn’t know that, but it makes a great deal of sense. Will you try it?”

“I most certainly will!” She flexed her fingers thoughtfully. “And I’ll try it on some of my arthritic regulars. If it works, I’ll be buying a good bit of gin!”

Laurel entered the room. “Lucas, a young man has just been brought in with a serious knee injury. Are you willing to take a look at him?”

“Of course.” Lucas rose. “I look forward to hearing your results, Mrs. Simmons.”

She grinned. “If drunken raisins work, I’ll tell all of London!”

“I think you’ve made a friend,” Laurel said after they left the apothecary’s room.

“I hope so. You’re very lucky to have her.”

“I know. Zion House and the infirmary are blessed in our people.” Laurel led the way downstairs to one of the treatment rooms behind the reception area. She opened the door, saying, “Here’s the young man with the injured knee, Alfred Roberts, and his brother Martin.”

The patient lay on an examination table, his face white with pain as his brother hovered worriedly over him. “Can you help Alf?” Martin asked worriedly. “Our pa owns a tavern not far from here. We were loadin’ casks of beer when one slipped and fell on Alf and busted his knee.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lucas said in a soothing voice.

“It bloody hurts!” Alf hissed through clenched teeth.

“Of course it does, but you’ve come to the right place to get fixed,” Lucas said as he rolled Alf’s loose trouser leg above the swollen knee. “I have to examine the injury and that will hurt more, I’m afraid.”

He closed his eyes and offered a brief prayer for healing Alf’s injury. He didn’t know if the prayer helped, but he was sure it didn’t hinder.

He’d found that talking helped distract a patient, so as he carefully probed the lower leg from knee to foot, he asked, “Is there numbness anywhere?”

“N . . . no. I wish it was numb!”

“In this case, pain is good. Numbness would mean worse damage.” He examined the area around the kneecap to learn whether the bones were broken or merely misaligned. “What’s the name of your family tavern?”

Alf gave a sharp bark of pain, then said raggedly, “The Three . . . Sails.”

“Is the beer good?”

“The best in London!” Alf said.

“Aye, it is,” Martin agreed.