Her home was as neat and as orderly as she was, and it was always a pleasure to visit with Adelaide. She was, without a doubt, one of the finest poets I had ever read, and it is a shame that she never had the confidence to publish them.
Her husband, Frank Orde, had attempted to convince her for years, but she remained resolute in her refusal, even when he begged her upon his deathbed.
Adelaide was content with writing her poetry, putting it aside and moving on with the rest of her day. She was a voracious reader, and when she was not writing or working in her garden, she could be found near her fireplace with a book in hand. It was with some difficulty, but in the fall of 1904, she finally agreed to accept a raven companion.
I sent her Frigga, and the two became close friends, nigh on inseparable.
On December 5th, 1904, a one-eyed raven I did not know landed beside me and told me to visit Adelaide. This raven, larger and darker than the others, had an undeniable air of command, and I felt it best to do as he bade me.
I arrived at Adelaide’s a short time later and was shocked at what I saw.
Three of the beasts from Gods’ Hollow were stretched out on the newly fallen snow, bleeding from their eyes and ears, their noses and their mouths. They were dead, though what killed them I did not know. The window to Adelaide’s parlor was open, and when I stepped up to it, she smiled at me. Frigga sat upon the back of Adelaide’s chair, and when I asked my friend what had occurred, she smiled and held up a small journal. She saw my look of confusion and laughed.
“These are my death poems, Duncan Blood,” Adelaide replied. “And they are death for those who mean me harm.”
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