The evening before Luthor was to propose to my sister, I got lost on my way back from my embroidery lesson and happened upon his chambers. How absent-minded of me. The following morning, Luthor never made it down the stairs to propose to my sister, because the boy couldn’t bloody walk. And once he could, the only thing he wanted was what I’d given him, the night before. I was good. I was very, very good.
so there’s this local bar. it’s local. kinda cold. down under ground. halfway between the ground and street level. got half a flight of stairs down to it. inside there’s this piano player. he’s jamming. really good. got his hands moving all fast on the black and white. percussioning. so good. keeps hitting the keys faster. more, he demands. they wheel the second piano over. two pianos now. 176 keys. still going. he’s so good at playing these pianos. more, he demands, more. they wheel the third one over. three pianos. piano juggling. so good
“The original novel [Dumb Witness] was dedicated to her [Agatha Christie’s] own wire-haired terrier - ‘To dear Peter,’ it read, 'most faithful of friends and dearest of companions. A dog in a thousand.’ I felt exactly the same way about the terrier in our film. He captivated me from the moment I set eyes on him. The little dog, whose real name was actually Snubby, became my dear friend. [..] My now ever-expanding fan club wrote to tell me how much they enjoyed it [the episode], so they also told me, the sales of wire-haired terriers shot up exponentially after it was shown for the first time in March 1996.” - David Suchet, Poirot and Me
the aftermath of it
can’t find it in herself to be mad anymore.
At the start, after Magnus had portaled home, staggering and hurt and halfway to death with this boy leaning against him, asking that she help this Shadowhunter first… she remembers healing him – Alexander
– and feeling rage. With runes stark on his skin and blood
on his knuckles, he had been every inch a Nephilim. The Nephilim who
had stolen Magnus’s heart.
She remembers the way she’d frowned at his unconscious face,
comparing him to the strip of photographs Magnus left on his desk.
Watching him lying there on a makeshift cot in the living room,
suffering from the shock of blood loss and broken bones, she couldn’t
imagine him making funny faces, couldn’t imagine him looking at
Magnus with soft, sweet eyes. Couldn’t imagine that
he’d want Magnus’s touch, that he would smile
that boyish, lopsided smile with her best friend’s arms looped
She remembers thinking, you don’t deserve him. This
Shadowhunter, this lying Head of the New York Institute,
didn’t deserve Magnus and his love. Magnus, who had started
sleeping exclusively on the right side of the bed, who looked at
Madzie with something wistful in his gaze every time she ran toward
him, who always protected his people at the expense of his own
He’s too good for you, she had thought as she glared
daggers at the boy in front of her, with his angel blood and penchant
for prejudice. But she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t rolled him down the stairs, and had gone to help Magnus instead; her best friend, drained of magic and still stubbornly trying to heal himself. She’d gone to the balcony afterwards to clear her mind for a minute, to rest her hands, and now, as she turns around to check in on Magnus…
The Shadowhunter is missing from his cot. Classic. Rolling her eyes, she opens the
door to the master bedroom.
They’re lying in Magnus’s bed together, Magnus’s head
pillowed on Alec Lightwood’s chest, nearly asleep as he slowly
heals from the wounds of battle. His body still lies stiff from the aches
of demon venom coursing through his blood, skin paler than its usual
golden hue, bruises littered everywhere, yet his arm is still curled
possessively around the Shadowhunter’s waist in a familiar motion.
And the Shadowhunter…
He’s looking at Magnus like he’s a miracle.
His eyes never leave Magnus’s and his face is soft and warm and
content, like he’s holding onto something he thought he’d lost
forever. He looks young like this, the way he smiles and whispers
secrets into Magnus’s ear, the way his fingers trace patterns on
his bare shoulder, the way he readjusts the red silk blanket so that
it’s tucked carefully under Magnus’s chin.
Magnus can’t see it, with his face buried into the
Shadowhunter’s shirt, but from the doorway, Catarina can. This boy…
he’s truthfully, honestly, painfully in love. The
type of love Catarina hasn’t seen Magnus receive in too long, the
type that’s as helpless and natural as the sky is blue. And a part
of her still wants to be angry, to shake Alec Lightwood until his
teeth click in his skull, to tell him, don’t you ever hurt
him, but from the way he’s staring down at Magnus with his
heart in his eyes, she thinks he already knows.
Catarina starts to turn around, when unexpectedly Alec Lightwood’s
eyes dart up to meet hers at the sound of her loafers swishing
faintly against the rug. They stare, frozen for an awkward moment,
and she nearly laughs at loud at the way his cheeks go rosy pink. She
opens her mouth to say something, to make fun of him
maybe, or tell him to let Magnus sleep, but right then Magnus shifts,
groaning low in his throat, and the Shadowhunter breaks his gaze,
mumbling something into Magnus’s hair that makes her friend smile
Wordlessly, Catarina magics the door closed, staring at the smooth
black wood as Magnus and Alec fade from view. In the kitchen, she
makes herself a cup of chamomile tea, hands wrapped around the
soothing, fragrant heat as she sighs in exhaustion. The two of them…
they don’t make sense to her, not at all. They shouldn’t work.
But Magnus is Magnus, and he’s never done anything by halves. If
his happiness comes in the form of a too-tall Shadowhunter with
gentle eyes and a cautious smile, then Catarina will be the very last
person in this dimension to tell him no.