"We're waiting, Rowena." Sir Robert's smooth voice had a hint of hardness lurked behind it. Still, she stood frozen. "We need the blood of an innocent. Do it now."

She raised the athame high, and brought it down swiftly. It pierced through the boy's arm, blood pooling out to stain the altar. He screamed, high and shrill. She watched the blood slip across the stone for a moment. Then, with a small, tight smile, she pulled the athame out of his arm, raised it again, and cut through the rope binding his nearest arm. The witches gathered started murmuring angrily. She walked down the altar, sliced the rope binding his leg, then circled the altar and reversed the process. When she was done, she hissed, "Off y'go now, boy. Back to the carriage." Fergus flinched from her, grabbed his wounded arm, slid off the altar, and ran.

She stood across the altar from Sir Robert, and folded her arms, bloody athame dripping down her naked body.

He stared at her through narrowed eyes. Isobel stood next to him, frowning darkly. The other witches behind her quieted, as they waited with excitement for the coven leaders to make their move.

"Very amusing," Sir Robert murmured with a grim expression on his face.

Rowena tossed her head. She presented a brave front, but inside she was shaking and breathless. "Aye, was it not?"

"You do realize that without the blood of an innocent, your initiation is incomplete."

Triumph shot through her. He had originally said "sacrifice". But his second warning, and this reprimand...well. She smiled at him as if nothing untoward had happened, and pointed the blade at the altar. "There is your innocent blood. Put there by my hand. Deny that if y'will, but 'tis there."

Isobel made a sudden movement, then stilled. Her frown shifted from anger to irritated consideration. She leaned toward Sir Robert, who was by now looking thunderous, and murmured to him. Rowena waited, hands slick with sweat on the blade despite the chill mist surrounding them. She watched as Sir Robert's hands clenched into fists then spasmed open while he listened to whatever Isobel was saying. He kept his angry eyes fixed on Rowena.

He flung up a sudden hand to stop Isobel's talk. She bit her lip, then dipped her head and stepped back. He stalked to the altar facing Rowena, his lips thin and tight.

"Very swift thinking, girl. As my coven second has said to me..." He paused, drew in a breath, his face taut, eyes glittering. Then he ground out, "The blood is enough." He shot out his hand, grabbed her wrist, dragged her halfway across the altar. "But if you ever. Ever. Disobey me again. The blood on that altar will be yours. Do you understand?"

The cold stone dug into her naked flesh; she would have scrapes and bruises tomorrow. The look in his eyes terrified her. But, at the same time, the realization sang through her: he had commanded, she had disobeyed, but still...still...she was officially part of the coven now. She also knew she might have made an enemy. And for what? For that pulling boy. She looked into his eyes, nodded, tried to appear meek, subdued. It seemed to work. He released her wrist, stepped back.

Sir Robert lifted his hands above his head, clapped them sharply. "Attend, all! Rowena MacLeod is now one of us, bound by blood and flesh and by the Dark Lord. And now, it is time to disperse." With that, he dropped his hands and strode off. Isobel darted one last glance at Rowena, still frowning, and followed.

The remaining witches started collecting their clothing, moving off. Many of them gave her sidelong glances as they passed. She stood as tall and straight as she could, pretending to ignore their suspicions, their distrust. She had fulfilled the letter of the law for the initiation, but they all knew she had skirted the real meaning of it. So be it. She knew she was stronger than any of them in raw power. With continued training, she would be the best of the lot. She smiled tightly, watching them leave, then scooped up her own clothes and walked to the last carriage.

When she got there, she stopped, dressed, and thought. Her son was in the carriage. She had almost - almost! - lost her chance over some odd twitch of sentimentality, some fragment of the mother-son bond holding her back. She couldn't afford that, not anymore.

She climbed in, sat back, and looked at him in the dimness. He looked back at her, his face tear-streaked. He shook with sobs, and hiccuped pathetically. He huddled in the corner, holding his wounded arm tightly with his other hand.

"Stop that!" she snapped. "Be a man! Are y'dead, then? No. You could be lyin' cold and bloodless on that altar, save for my quick thinkin'." He flinched. "Tch!" She leaned forward. He flinched away. She seized his arm. "Let me look at that. 'Twould be no good for it to fester; if that were to happen, I might as well have stabbed y'through the heart." Big, blue, tear-filled eyes looked up at her with fear, and she bit her lip. "Ach. Fergus. Let me look." Her voice was softer. Slowly, very slowly, he relaxed, let her pull the hand away from his blood-soaked arm. She peeled back the slit cloth, looked at the wound as best she could in the dim light. "Well, then. Seems 'tis a clean enough cut. I'll sew it up when we get back home."

He choked back yet another sob. "Home." His voice was small, barely audible. "I want Maeve!" he wailed suddenly, pushing his head into her shoulder.

"Aye, no doubt," she muttered sourly, as she ruffled his hair, damp from the mist. She stared out the small carriage window as it entered the city.