In the midst of Covent Garden in London’s busy West End, Arven Fisk pulled off his shirt and set fire to a pole.

A street entertainer in the Italian city of Florence had taught him the dangerous art of fire-juggling, and Arven had set about mastering it over the proximate years. Arven had today returned to London, ever an appealingly chaotic and crowded city, and as night fell he decided to see what the bourgeois English thought of his exotic skill. This was brazen and strange and improper, but Arven cared not.

Covent Garden attracted street performers near enough every night at this time of year, but nothing like this. The pole — in actual fact two poles linked by chains — was on fire, everywhere except where his hands touched (he had a spell to thank for that). Startled passers-by gave him a wide berth as Arven began to spin the pole in great sweeping movements, then someone whooped as he threw it, and gasped as he caught it deftly. A crowd began to gather as the fire-juggler lit up the night’s sky with casually fiery abandon.