There are those that claim, as the foremost foragers of the facts of fantasy, that there is no such thing as magic. Magic- or magick, as some may also spell it, is something invented entirely by shysters, charlatans, and men lacking in good moral standing. It is, they claim, of the same ilk as those other acts performed by those who seem bereft of ethics; spiritualism, mentalism, and other such things.

However, as the premier performer of prestidigitation in the proximity of the palace; a fine, florid fellow by the name of Frederick Phoenix, I can tell you that these men, correct as they may be, have done nothing to hinder the interest of those who might otherwise be fooled. Indeed, quite the opposite; since the outspoken rambling in The Times, by men with double-barrelled surnames and facial hair that threatens to encroach upon their noses, my bookings have blossomed, ballooned even.

As a child, my father- a man for whom the word 'career' was but a flight of fancy, and for whom the word 'actor'(for actor was the job he most often lay claim to) covered a multitude of sins- told me that the greatest thing a man can do in life is appear to deliver unto others that which they dream for, hope for, wish for. A man, he told me, must seem to be exactly what is needed at any given moment; he must be able to turn himself to any social situation he may stray upon, must be able to succinctly slot himself into any standing he may be required to claim to have. A man, he told me, should be able to talk to the Queen in one breath, and a beggar in the next, and never have the two doubt he is anything less than sincere.

A lesson, my friends, I most definitely took to heart.

After the death of my father, my mother, in an attempt to avoid both the poorhouse and the workhouse, sent me out onto the streets, in order to earn what I could; drawing upon my father's words, I soon found myself a member of an actor's troupe- but this, my friends, soon became somewhat stagnant, and so I sallied forth, and took up marginally less legitimate deeds in order to gain some coin.

I speak, of course, of thievery, pickpocketry, of things known only by whispered names in hushed voices; I became proficient at scamming, at conning, at talking people out of just about anything they had; men handed me money, women handed me jewellery, kerchiefs, other such trinkets of high value.

I tell you all this, my friends, only so that your understanding may be twofold; firstly, that even as a youth, I was most mercenary in my actions, doing precisely what I needed to do in order to further my own ends, and secondly, that I had no moral compunctions or reservations about manipulating people in whichever ways I needed to. I would, in short, pull the puppet-strings of whoever I set my sights on, doing and saying and being whatever was needed, wanted, hoped for, longed for, dreamed for. I tell you this, friends, so you understand what happened to me the night of that fateful performance; a performance where I presented a party of revellers with such tricks and wonders and magickal marvels that their eyes did boggle and their jaws did drop. I tell you this, friends, so you understand that at this performance, I met someone who would change my life, in many, many ways I could never have fathomed in my wildest imaginings.

I tell you this, friends, so you understand that this is where I met her.

For she was the flames upon which this Phoenix was reborn.

I'll be honest, I have literally no idea where this could go, or what could happen; I just love writing Victorian-era stuff, and this character's one I had already, who I've adapted slightly for the purposes of this. If you want to know his origins- and that of his compatriot, Sebastian Sullivan, feel free to ask. Otherwise, feel free to message me with thoughts, ideas, whatever comes to mind.