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Perhaps it was possible for a machine to feel.
Three months ago, she would surely have dismissed this kind of thinking as utter folly, the romantic ravings of a few sentimental machinists. They pretended to godhood as they constructed their monstrous clockwork beasts, mockeries of life wrought of metal and gears. Such things could not possibly understand natural emotion. Their purpose was to serve their masters, to provide an outlet for the human urge to subjugate without the messiness and aftermath of the subjugated.
Belle and her family had been far too poor to own one, even had they wanted an eerie mechanical presence in their home. But now Belle had been living in the huge, old mansion - no, had been trapped there - in a nightmarish existence for what seemed a lifetime under the dubious rule of a man made of metal. And lately, she had caught herself pondering that if it weren't for the fact that she could see between the open spaces in the gleaming iron pieces of the Machine's chest cavity, she would swear there was a heart beating there.
The machinist who once lived in this mansion had been known for his beautiful, intricately engineered clockwork, but also for the utterly careless way he treated his own creations. The rumors reached far and wide, and even those like Belle who did not believe in the feelings of a machine thought his ways cruel. But he had disappeared quite suddenly one day, never to be seen or heard from again. Belle had taken shelter in what she assumed to be an abandoned building only to encounter the utter surreality of a household composed entirely of machines. They had been given names at some point, all except the one who had somehow gained sovereignty over the others. Belle, unwilling to call him - it - "Master" as his underlings did, had privately dubbed it the Machine.
Its desire to remain undiscovered by the outside world was understandable. The idea of a self-sufficient machine had frightening implications for beings of flesh and blood. It was proud of its independence, speaking often of the oppressive machinists, derision clear in its voice despite the characteristic monotone. No matter how Belle promised not to betray its existence to any living soul, it refused to let her leave the mansion.
It had never abused her physically, never even touched her, though its metal hands could no doubt crush her frail body with minimal effort. But its manner toward her, slowly discernible despite the lack of normal modes of expression, had never let her forget that she was a prisoner.
The change began, strangely enough, with food.
"I realize that the meals I have provided for you thus far have been... less than enjoyable. Tonight, I have asked my chefs to prepare something which should be more satisfactory. Would you grant me the honor of joining me for dinner?"
Belle stood blinking in astonishment at his mere presence in her chamber doorway. His bearing, such as it was, was stiff but did not radiate his usual coldness.
"Please."
All she could do was follow him to the banquet hall, practically vibrating with shock. The food looked excellent, but she barely tasted it. The Machine, of course, did not eat.
Then came the library, a well-kept secret of the mansion. How The Machine had discovered her love of books, she could not begin to guess. He seemed undeniably pleased to present it to her.
In her perusal of the towering, labyrinthine shelves, she discovered a small reading alcove. There was a portrait there, nearly hidden where the light from the windows did not penetrate. A handsome young man gazed at her confidently from the shadows. She had never inquired as to the fate of the mansion's previous master.
"He was a brilliant man in some ways. But his foolishness in others knew no bounds."
The Machine had appeared at her shoulder with its usual stealth. She started, but not in real fear.
"I'm surprised that you grant him even that much approval. Was he not the cause of your oppression?"
In the darkness of the alcove, Belle could see only a silhouette of his head. It almost looked human as it lowered in what she could now admit was emotion.
"Yes. He was."
It was an emotion she knew. He was not proud. He was ashamed, though of what she could not guess. How odd that it should be so easy to mistake one for the other.