Her dog is dead—she finds him that way when she walks into her room at the end of the day.
It takes her a moment to completely understand. There is a pile of bright white fur stained by blood blood blood (his body, so fragile-seeming now, does not seem like it would have had room for it all). She tells him to wake up even though she knows he cannot; he will never wake or sleep again.
"Oh, Bec," she whimpers, her voice very small, and she curls up into his stomach (her hands and skirt and shirt are soaked in his blood, it has smeared on her face and oh, god, she can taste it, sharp and metallic) and wishes for a heartbeat or the steady rise and fall of his chest as she is used to. "Bec, what did she do to you?"
Yesterday, she had screamed. She had said no, made a fit and refused to give in, refused refused refused to let that horrible woman win. It hadn't been submissive crying, weakness, she had shown strength, she had shown a rebellious side that could only grow stronger, she had made the Batterwitch fear what she could become.
And she had been punished for it.
"Never," says the wickedest woman she will ever know, "disobey me again," while Jade thinks about all the different ways she will.