Dr. Reginald Pembrooke had always been terrible with numbers. This was not a problem when he was setting broken bones in the countryside — bones broke in predictable ways and healed in predictable times. But medical consultation to the Home Office required precision, and precision was not Reginald's strong suit.

Miss Agatha Finch had been very clear. "One grain of arsenic. Not two. Not half. One. Put it in his evening tea. That is all."

Reginald had nodded seriously. He had asked whether a grain was the small grain or the large grain. Agatha had sighed. "The small one. The one that looks like a grain of sand."

Reginald had looked at his jar of arsenic. It contained crystals that looked like sugar. He had confused the arsenic with a herbal supplement he had been taking — chamomile extract mixed with something else he couldn't identify. He measured with his fingers, not a scale. He was a good doctor at setting bones. He was not a good chemist.

Agatha visited to check his progress and was horrified. "Just give it to him, Reginald. It's probably fine. Even if it's not arsenic, it's probably just herbs. He'll feel a bit sick. That's the point."

Reginald gained access to Lord Chamberlain Blackthorne's study under the pretense of a medical consultation. Blackthorne was a portly man with a red face and a habit of chewing on his cigar. He welcomed Reginald warmly.

"Doctor! Wonderful to see you. What brings you to my humble abode?"

"A routine check, my lord. You look... robust."

"Robust is one word for it. I've been feeling dreadful. The stress of Parliament, you understand. Everything is in chaos. The unions, the strikes, the poverty — it's enough to make a man ill."

Reginald prepared the tea. His hands were shaking. He added the powder. He prayed — not to God but to whatever force governed the universe's sense of humor.

Blackthorne drank the tea. They discussed the weather. Reginald left convinced he was a murderer.

Three hours later, Blackthorne called. "Doctor, your tea has done something most peculiar to my stomach. I feel rather queasy."

Reginald panicked. He went to Blackthorne's residence. The lord was sitting on his sofa, looking pale but alive. "What did you give me?"

"I — it was supposed to be —"

"Never mind. I'm fine. Mostly. The doctor at St. Bartholomew's says it's food poisoning. I'm being admitted for observation."

Reginald accompanied him to the hospital. It was a new public facility — clean, well-lit, staffed by nurses who treated everyone equally regardless of class. Blackthorne, a rich lord, was placed in a ward with dockworkers and factory girls.

He was stunned.

Over the next three days, Blackthorne observed the hospital. He saw doctors treating workers without asking about their jobs or their wallets. He saw nurses caring for patients with the same dedication regardless of status. He saw a system that worked not because of charity but because of principle.

When he was released, he called Reginald to his office.

"Your tea was terrible, Doctor. But the hospital was magnificent."

Reginald blinked. "My lord?"

"I've dropped the Public Morals Act. I've seen how they treat the workers there. No class distinction. No waiting. Just... medicine."

Reginald tried to confess that he had accidentally used chamomile instead of arsenic. Blackthorne interrupted: "Don't tell me, Doctor. I'd rather not know."

Reginald walked home through the London fog, wondering if accidentally saving the world counted as saving it. He decided it did. He decided that perhaps the universe had a sense of humor. He decided that tomorrow he would buy a scale.

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