Alina clasps her hands together, sharing looks with Thomas who sat across from her in their small lifeless cell. Where had the rest of the orchestra been taken? Neither knew. Their instruments were gone. Their belongings had been stripped from them hours ago. What had previously been a united euphony was now fracturing silence as each stared at the floor.

Alina had found the briefcase in the morning as she left for work. Assuming it had been an important brief that was too classified for other journalists, she mostly ignored it, it could wait until she got home. After all, there was nothing she could do about it now.

That was until a gold plate with her family name engraved on it caught her eye. To Carnell: She glanced from one neighboring home to the other. It was too early for their lights to be on yet, it must have been an Assembly brief. The police, who were hired by The Assembly, were the only ones out patrolling this early, thus having the ability to drop the case off on her porch.

At the bus stop, she watched as dull, rusted cars drove by. Each on their way to their meaningless position at their meaningless job all to provide for the meaningless Assembly. She rode the bus to the main compound. The ride was silent as usual, almost eerily silent at the weight of the briefcase back home, which now held esteem real estate on her kitchen table. Alina watched as each gray building flashed by. Only a few panes of glass managed to reflect what little sunshine broke through the heavy cloud cover.

The bus pulled to a stop. On one side of the road was a glittering fountain and on the other the hulking silhouette of The Assembly: the compound which governed the entire country.

Alina made her way to her office, which hovered above the main shop floor of the compound. She watched through a large glass pane as each laborer below filed in one after the other in a perfect unit.

On her desk, she only found four text blocks and maybe the one at home. For a normal day that wasn’t much, considering her office and only a few others were the only ones that held any written text. The only ones to have black text on crisp white paper in the entire country.

She settled into reading through and editing each with a red pen, it was the small creative liberty she was allowed.

Mid-day, Alina noticed a commotion on the shop floor. She didn’t move, knowing that the cameras below could see into her office. She only watched in silence as one of the laborers was dragged out, their feet scraping the floor. An officer followed holding a colorful sheet of paper crumpled in their fist.

When she returned home, she was faced with the dilemma of the briefcase. She sat, staring at the midnight-black case, reading the plaque To Carnell: over and over again.

After many minutes, she pulled the case close.

The singular silver latch flicked open with a satisfying click, revealing not another text block from the Assembly but a disassembled black and silver instrument. A yellow note hovered above it.

To whomever this note finds,

This instrument is an heirloom of many generations. We thought it fit to return it to a rightful decedent after so many years with the hopes that you may join us.

We are building a resistance. Not of violence but of musical talent. If you are interested, bring this note to 7~~~8 North We~~~o~~r rd at midnight.

We look forward to meeting you soon.

-The Whittler

Who was ‘The Whittler’? She wondered running her fingers along the paper. The address of the meeting was scribbled out but readable ‘74678 North Westover Rd’. Where had they gotten real paper from? The only place in all of the Assembly to have tangible paper was in her office.

Ding-dong

Alina’s heart dropped: why was someone here so close to supper time? She trotted towards the door, stuffing the note in her pocket. An officer stood outside the door, leaning casually on the banister. In his hands was a recording tablet which she eyed warily, knowing that everything she said would be transcribed into a written brief, but unfortunately not for her eyes.

“Good evening sir, what can I do for you?” She wrung her hands together.

“I was informed that you may have received a misplaced item.” He said. “I was hoping that you might be able to give me information on it.”

“I don’t believe I know what you’re referring to,” Alina said.

“You didn’t see a black and gold case?” She shook her head.

“No sir.” The officer nodded once, then twice.

“Well, I suppose it was just misinformation. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Of course, you would know how important it is for us to find forbidden contraband. My report from the Assembly said it might be an instrument of some sort, an old one too.” He smirked, shaking his head. “I would make a deal with you to split the profits. Just think about how much the Assembly would reward us.” The officer mused for a moment before snapping back to reality.

"Do you have any information?"

“No sir, but I expect I will find some more details in a brief tomorrow morning." He nodded.

There was a moment of silence.

“Anyways. I suppose I should be going. If you can provide any assistance to the search-” He tapped a small metal sheet engraved with a string of letters and numbers, before he handed it to her. “Have a wonderful evening.”

She watched the officer get into the car at the end of the driveway and peel away with a squeal. She shuffled back inside, placing the business card on the table beside the yellowed note. She squeezed her eyes closed and slammed the case shut. If she didn’t have to see it, maybe it would go away.

She stared at the case as she ate her stew. Unconsciously fiddling with the latch until it popped back open. She trailed her fingers gently along the silver keys of the instrument, pressing each one down on occasion, listening to the soft click of each pad falling. Then she shut the case again shaking her head. If she didn’t have to see it, she wouldn’t be tempted by it. The conflict repeated multiple times well into the evening.

The blanket of darkness settled over the town. Alina stood in front of the door, dressed in a dark cloak that reached halfway to her ankle and a dark hat that would help hide her face. The briefcase dangling from one hand.

She stepped out into the brisk night, locking her door shut with an audible click, before making her way into town. Alina trudged down the sidewalk, shivering as small drops of rain started to fall. She ducked her head and hugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

She hiked into town counting building addresses until she was standing across from the towering Assembly compound and the fountain that separated the two sides.

Under a bus stop, she checked the note again, looking for the address of the letter, but she couldn’t find it. She set the case down on the curb, standing under a street lamp, and checking the letter once again.

“You must be our clarinet player.” A voice said behind her. A man stepped out of the shadows of the building. He had dark blond hair and dark eyes. Most of his figure was covered in dark rags. She snatched up the instrument, holding it with white knuckles in both hands.

“I can see you’ve found the note.” He said. “Come, I’ll show you.” His hands were folded calmly in front of him.

Alina didn’t move.

“If I knew to find you here, wouldn’t I also know about the note? It’s not a trap if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m sure the police already tried to investigate the situation, didn’t they? You would have known if an officer was following you. You most likely would have been arrested already.”

Alina let the stranger guide her away from the street and down an alley to a small wooden door adorned with a hanging lantern. He led her through first, turning to grab the lamp with a quick look in both directions. With the lamp now inside the door, she could see they were standing at the top of a set of concrete stairs leading down to a dimly lit room.

Sounds seemed to leak from the room. Good sounds. Pretty sounds.

“Of course, we wouldn’t want anyone to see us. The Assembly would be mighty excited.” He said. He led the way down the stairs which opened up into an old tavern. The bar was still intact, and a smattering of about twenty chairs was positioned in a shaky circle in the middle of the room. Each with a welded stand around it.

At the bar, a dark-haired man was whittling away at a piece of bamboo. Across the room, a woman was whistling away on her flute with a small group huddled around her. Two others, a red-haired woman with her hair tied into a bun, and a man, with brown hair draping down to his shoulders, danced near a speaker blasting music, each holding a mug of some sort of alcohol. Others seemed to gravitate towards the dancing pair.

“Everyone, please allow me to introduce the final member of The Underground Orchestra, our clarinetist.” There was a pause, as everyone turned to stare. Alina stared at the case in her hands, gripping it even tighter. Then one after another a soft clap echoed through the tavern.

“My name is Thomas, but I also go by The Bugle for correspondence outside of this room. I play the trumpet."

“Over there are Anya and Jonathan: they’re twins. She plays the violin, and he plays the French horn.” He pointed to the dancing pair.

Thomas introduced other members of the orchestra before pointing to the man at the bar.

“That’s The Whittler, who delivered your note. That’s the only name he goes by here.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Alina nodded, taking a moment to really look at each of the members. None were recognizable as wealthy or poor. They were a mismatched group of individuals all brought together through their love of music.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” Alina said, with a small smile.

“Of course now that you’ve joined us, you need your name.” Thomas looked her up and down.

“The Silver Lining,” Thomas said. She didn’t make any acknowledgment. He glanced down at the case. He chuckled, embarrassed. “It’s a clarinet joke.”

“You need reeds right?” Alina turned. It was The Whittler again. “For your clarinet?” She stayed quiet, after a moment of awkward silence, she shuffled over to him.

“You’ve never played before, have you?” He asked, taking the case from her. The Whittler waited for Alina to shake her head before he opened it, pulling out the clarinet mouthpiece and a metal ring-like piece.

“This is the mouthpiece and ligature.” He pointed first at the top of the instrument then at the metal ring. “The ligature helps keep the reed against the mouthpiece, so it can vibrate and make the sound. I play the saxophone, by the way, it's a very similar instrument.”

While the others worked on their respective parts, she and The Whittler sat for hours. She with her clarinet and him with his saxophone.

By the end of the night, she had managed to put the instrument together and get a few notes out.

"This is good progress, especially for your first day." The Whittler said. He handed her a second reed.

“Just in case.”

She continued to visit the musicians for many nights following then. They all seemed to follow the same rhythm. It started by enjoying and listening to music lost to the time, then individual practice, and a final rehearsal before they all departed with smiles and laughs. The nights were magical, a lively juxtaposition to the sad depressing lives they lived during the day. The days were filled with cold rotten isolation and the nights filled with humorous lively emotion.

Alina told them about her life, about her work, and in turn, the other members told her similar stories. Some of the musicians came from slums outside the city. Others worked in the fields or factories. None were the same.

One night, a few weeks after her first visit to the tavern, she found herself sitting again with the Whittler.

“You know for not knowing how to play before, you’re doing surprisingly well.”

“Thank you.” She said, still settling into her new routine with the Orchestra.

“You’re doing better than Thomas did.” He smirked, shooting a look at the trumpet player.

“What are you saying about me?” Thomas asked from the circle of chairs.

“Don’t worry about it.” The Whittler said, shaking his head. Thomas dragged his chair over, causing a screeching on the floor, before plopping down in it backward. His trumpet hung casually over the back.

“Come on hotshot, play us something.” He said, gesturing to the Whittler. “I bet Alina would enjoy that. Right?” She nodded, a sly smile graced her lips.

Another day, many months later, Alina was sitting in the ensemble, listening to the others practicing. She smoothed down the reed on her clarinet, accidentally snagging it the wrong way and chipping it enough for it to truly be an issue. She glanced over at The Whittler, who was fiddling with something in his lap.

“Hey Whit,” she whispered. He didn’t look over.

“Whit,” she said. Thomas nudged The Whittler pointing to her.

“Did you call me ‘Whit’?” He asked.

“I’m done calling you ‘The Whittler’,” she said, “It’s a mouthful.” He raised a questioning eyebrow, looking for why she needed his attention.

“I chipped my reed.”

“I just gave you that one about three days ago.” Alina shrugged.

He rolled his eyes, bending down to his case, and pulling another, already whittled one, out. He passed it down to her.

“Try not to chip that one, will you? It’s the last one I have right now.”

Around the six-month mark, Alina and The Whittler were sitting off to the side of the ensemble working quietly. Alina had her clarinet’s case in her lap and was slowly running her fingers across the plate, smudging the golden plate with cloudy fingerprints. To Carnell:

“You should add your name.” He said, out of the blue, fiddling with his saxophone’s mouthpiece.

“What?” She asked.

“Engrave your name in it. Right on the other side.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I’d even give you my whittling blade to do it.” Alina thought for a moment.

“What if it’s not truly mine though?” He looked taken aback.

“How could it not be yours?” The Whittler asked.

“What if there’s another Carnell? And they’re looking for it? What if it’s their clarinet?” He sighed, adjusting in his seat, and looked at her.

“We all went through that at one point: the insecurities.” He said. “Most of our instruments were all secretly passed down, heirlooms from long, long ago. There was a long time when this orchestra functioned without a clarinetist.” He said. “Even though the saxophone isn’t necessarily an orchestral instrument, I was able to fill in your parts, and some of the lower parts.”

“It’s not?” The Whittler shook his head.

“Imagine our surprise when we found a clarinet buried in the rubble of an old performance hall nonetheless.”

Alina rolled the instrument in her hands.

“‘To Carnell’ was written on the outside of the case when we found it. Thankfully, the Assembly doesn’t make it hard to track people down. You’re the only Carnell within a thousand miles of here.”

“Come on.” He said, handing her the maple handle of his famous whittling knife.

“Won’t this dull—”

“I’ll sharpen it.” He encouraged her. Alina spun the knife in her hand once, before picking up the case. She took a deep breath, scratching her name roughly in the metal.

“Alina Carnell. You have a pretty name.” She blushed, running her thumb over the jagged scratches. Officially, the clarinet was hers.

Nine months had passed since she had been inducted into the orchestra.

“We should take a break.” The Whittler said. They had been practicing for almost two hours, which caused an immense amount of strain on wind players.

“I’ve almost got this part,” Alina said, turning her eyes back to her music.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” He said, pulling her up. Alina rolled her eyes, setting her instrument down, grumbling softly.

“This better be worth it.”

The Whittler led her upstairs in the back of the tavern, which eventually emerged at the top of a ceiling.

The nightly breeze was warm and gentle.

“Why are we up on the roof?” Alina asked.

“It’s quiet up here. I come here to think sometimes.” The Whittler said, glancing out at The Assembly compound which stood stark in the distance.

“You can almost see my office from here.” She said, leaning back against

“Almost?”

“It’s the glass pane, right above the doorway.” Alina pointed out into the distance. She clasped her hands together.

“It’s much better on this side of the fountain.”

***

Almost in the blink of an eye, an entire year had passed. Alina was once again down in the abandoned tavern of the Underground Orchestra. She nursed a small mug of whatever concoction that Anya and Jonathan had made. They were practicing mostly as a full group when a knock from the door seemed to stop their hearts, destroying the steady rhythm of the group. Each member glanced at the other.

Thomas stood, handing his trumpet to Jonathan, who sat to his left. There was audible silence in the room as each person felt the palpable tension.

The Whittler stood, his saxophone still hanging from his neck strap, ushering everyone out towards a small hallway near the back of the tavern. It was lined with rows and rows of dusty bookshelves illuminated with a dim lightbulb overhead. There was another wooden door at the end of the hallway. How had she never known about this hallway? Alina wondered.

Alina and The Whittler stood shoulder to shoulder listening to only bits and pieces of the conversation.

“…reports of music…rebellious activity…” Various other words were too hushed and jumbled to catch.

“No… can look.” Was Thomas's reply.

“It’s the Assembly’s police.” He whispered, they shared a glance. “It was only a matter of time.”

“Go, go, go.” The Whittler turned and gestured down the hallway to the rest of the orchestra. When Alina didn’t move, he turned to her.

“You need to leave too. Thomas and I can handle this.” There was a moment of silence.

Suddenly, Thomas blew by the two, seizing their sleeves and dragging them down the hallway.

“They found us.”

Thomas and The Whittler struggled to move the heavy door and barricade their escape. The three watched through a small gap between the door and the wall as smoke drifted through the tavern.

“All our music was back there,” Thomas said, running a hand over his face and back through his hair.

“I can get us on top of the Assembly tomorrow night, easily,” Alina said, staring at the two.

“We’ll need to tell everyone,” Thomas said. “They’ll have to be ready.”

“Anya and Jonathan can help me.” Alina looked over at The Whittler. “I was the one to get you your clarinet.” He explained. “But I’m out of paper. I’m not using the library here.” He gazed longingly at the rows of bookshelves.

“Leave that to me,” Alina said, staring at the other two.

At work the next morning, Alina ripped out the back half of a brief from the middle of the stack. It would take them a while for any of her superiors to find it.

Each letter was written the same way:

Meet at the Assembly compound. Normal time.

We show them we won’t stand for this.

-The Silver Lining

Just as planned, the musicians met at the building in the dead of night, midnight. Their instruments were clutched in white-knuckled grips. Alina took a breath, meeting The Whittler’s eyes, clutching her instrument in both hands.

“If you don’t want to do this—” The Whittler started.

“We’re doing this.” She said, firming her shoulders. She was surprised to find that her key card still worked, as the green light clicked on and the door opened on its own.

She led the group past the towering machinery of the factory floor, which included the station of the man whose creativity had been repressed almost a year before.

“This will lead us all the way up,” Alina said, staring up a set of shadowed and claustrophobic stairs. She led the way followed by The Whittler, and then Thomas brought up the rear.

Alina climbed up the ladder first, one hand holding her instrument, and the other pulled herself up. She gazed around the rooftop as gusts of wind blew around her. Flashlights investigated the front door below them.

“They’re coming for us. They must have been notified when I used my keycard. We’ll need to move fast.” Alina looked over at Thomas. He nodded shifting on his feet. He shook his head and stood as each person found their place in the circle. He waved his hand conducting in the familiar pattern, and despite the lack of physical sheets, their music was just as marvelous as it was before.

He smiled, meeting Alina’s eyes for half a second before he found his own place in the circle.

The building seemed to shake as officers flooded into the Assembly below them, but no one stopped. The lack of a ladder didn’t seem to deter the officers for long as they climbed onto the roof, surrounding the orchestra.

One by one the notes trailed off until it was only Alina continuing their legacy. But that too ended, when her clarinet was wrenched from her hands. She was turned roughly, her hands cuffed behind her back as she was led off the rooftop, her head held high.