Eighth Day of May

Dear Beloved Diary,
It has been exactly two months to the day that Madeline arrived. Sixty days. Six-zero. As you know, dear diary, she has been a nightmare since day one. Sometimes I don’t know why I still put up with her. It would be much, much easier to bludgeon the back of her head and dump the body in a river. Unfortunately she is far too valuable for that.
Today she attempted to stand up to me again. Said she knew I wasn't her father - which I have known that she was aware of for a long time now, of course - but this time, she also said that she remembered the box and the wagon and the city she was stolen from. She told me that she thought I was evil, my machine was evil, and that she was going to stop me. It was her worst outburst yet - she must have had quite the fire in her before all this. I am glad she contained as only a fraction of her former self.
Regardless, I snapped her legs and chained her to her room so I could send a message out to Urmug without risking her trying to run away again. Hopefully he will get here within the week, else I don't know what I'd be driven to. He'll sort this out.
Despite her numerous attempts at sabotage, the main project been coming along nicely. Her skills in mechanics are like no other - the machine is very nearly built. She has not yet worked out what it's for, silly girl, but I have no intention of telling her; I don't plan on keeping her around any longer than I need to, and there's always the risk she'll let the information slip if she escapes again. She has long since stopped crying for help, which is nice, but I can still see the light of resistance in her eyes.
Until next time, dear diary.