None of us had been there, of course. Few who had been in Mont-sur-Mer had made it out, apart from the soldiers. But a few of the peasants escaped, too. One was a man my husband had been in school with, and he came here, hoping to find hospitality and safety. I couldn’t turn him away. He had lost everything, including his wife, and a peasant widower was going to have a hard life. He’d be lucky to find a job, and even less likely to find a woman who could provide for him. My husband and I don’t have much to offer, but it was the least I could do.

My husband’s friend told us all about it. He told us how the soldiers had simply appeared one day, how they had taken control of the town and built the gallows right in the town square. We listened, my husband and I and a few of our friends in Le Rateau, with rapt attention as he told us of how the Grand Magistrate had accused everyone in town. He told us of how she hanged the postmistress, and how she kept hanging others, one after another after another. He told us everything as our eyes filled with tears and lumps formed in our throats.

Then he told us about Lili Magret.

She was a stranger to us, of course, but somehow, as my husband’s friend described her, she seemed familiar. Perhaps someone had mentioned her to me when folk came up from the bigger city to pass through Le Rateau. But even though she was a stranger to me, I felt my stomach turn at what happened to her. My husband’s friend described her as she stood on that scaffold, tears in her eyes as she pressed them against her mother’s dress. I felt myself grow pale as he described how they slipped the noose around her neck, and I became ill when he described how she dropped.

I grew as pale as Lili must have.

My husband’s friend was asked to tell the story several more times over the course of the evening as new people filtered into and out of my little shop. I spent most of my time working on sewing. Even in a small town like Le Rateau, a peasant seamstress can’t afford to fall behind. One missed dress or blouse could cost me and my family a meal. So I continued to work the material as he told the story again and again in the next room. And each time he told it, I could hear, and each time, it brought tears to my eyes.

Lili had been so young, perhaps nine or ten years old. She seemed so familiar to me. I think she and her mother had been in the shop once, because every time her sweet face was described, I could see it in my mind, as clear as a pattern. So she must have been through here at least once or twice. I couldn’t quite picture her mother, poor thing, but her daughter had made quite the impression. So sweet, so innocent, so smart and well-behaved. Every time I thought about her, I cried again. It was a tragedy.

Everyone else in Le Rateau says so, too. As they were leaving from hearing the story, they would ask me if I’d heard, and I would tell them I had, and say how terrible it was. But the words never seemed to be enough. I just kept imagining how I would feel, if that were my daughter. I shiver at the thought! That poor mother, and that poor, poor little girl! I have never heard of anything so horrible, and neither has anyone else in Le Rateau. They all say so.

But it just seems that words aren’t enough.

Everyone in Le Rateau was enraged, and I was right there with them. We were gathered in my home, as many of us as would fit, and we were discussing what we should do. Words weren’t enough. Lili Magret had been killed, and we couldn’t let her be forgotten. I had been working on my material all day, and the soft, white fabric felt cold in my hands. I felt like I was sewing Lili’s own death shroud.

Lili Magret had been wearing a dress I had sown for her when she was killed. I’m almost sure of it. Her face was so clear to me that I’m sure she was a regular customer. Her mother, Goddess protect her, probably came in once a season to pick up a new dress for her little angel, and though I can’t quite remember her name, poor thing, I can picture Lili’s eyes perfectly, flashing with such unabashed childish joy that I can’t help but cry when I think about it, knowing what happened beneath the clock tower of Mont-sur-Mer.

We need to do something. Everybody in Le Rateau says so. I’m not sure what we need to do, but I agree that we need to do something. We cannot let Lili, poor, precious, pale Lili, be forgotten. The thought of it makes me angry, as angry as everyone in Le Rateau. I will never forget that beautiful, innocent child. And I will do everything in my power to make sure that nobody else does, either.

And words are not enough.

Every tenth one of us in Le Rateau carried a plain white banner. I stayed up all night getting the material together, and my husband and his friend helped me fix them to the poles. The banners were white in remembrance of Lili Magret, murdered by the aristocracy in Mont-sur-Mer. We needed to do something. We needed to be something. We needed to be something and do something that would make sure nobody would ever forget. We are the Pale Lilies, and words are not enough.

The Chateau of Lady Agneau was not prepared for us. Every tenth one held a plain white banner, and every third carried a torch. Everyone else had axes, pitchforks, or ropes. Lady Agneau had lived in Le Rateau for over sixty years. She was a noble, but not even high enough on their food chain to be called a vicomtesse. But she was as guilty as any aristocrat. She may as well have sentenced sweet Lili to death herself, Lili, who I believe was my cousin’s own beautiful daughter, buried in the dress I made for her tenth birthday.

I barely noticed the flames as we tore through the Chateau. The guards tried to stop us, but there were only five or six of them, and the Pale Lilies were all of Le Rateau. We tore them apart, and then we proceeded through the Chateau, destroying anything we could find until we found Lady Agneau herself. She was cowering in fear in her room, which was likely bigger than Lili Magret’s home had been.

We pulled her to the center of the room and were just about to execute her when we heard a scream, and a little girl, no more than about ten or so, burst in from the closet, crying. It was clear from her fancy dress, her clear skin, and her finely combed hair that she was an aristocrat girl. Lady Agneau actually had the audacity to ask us not to hurt her granddaughter. She even begged, no doubt mocking the peasants of Mont-sur-Mer as they begged for the lives of their loved ones. She promised to give us anything we wanted if we let the girl go.

There was a shout from the Pale Lilies to never forget Lili Magret.

And words were not enough.