and daisy is half her age

If one would ask young Miss Daisy Unwin, aged four and a half, what her favourite place in all of London was, she would tell you that it was an indoor flower garden that had a butterfly exhibit. Her brother would often take her there to look at the pretty flowers (after he would get her some from the front shop, “flowers for a flower,” he’d say) and lift her up on his shoulders when they walked through the butterfly room. Perhaps they might look less like a father-daughter combination, him in a casual suit and her in her prettiest dress, if their mother had gone with them, but these days were for just the two of them.

There was once, however, that Daisy could remember someone else joining their little party. A young man, about her brother’s age and dressed much the same, offered his hand to her on her right (Eggsy always stood on her left, no matter what) and smiled brightly when she took it, sending a soft glance to her brother over her head.

“This is Harry,” her brother had said. “He’s a - he’s a friend of mine.” The way they looked at eachother wasn’t the way friends looked, Daisy thought, as she had seen a look similar to theirs on the elderly couple who lived next door to her and her mother.

They wandered through the flowers, the two men speaking quietly to each other but never ignoring her, seemingly immune to the odd states they were receiving. When it came time to see the butterflies, she looked up at her brother, and then up at Harry.

“Can I have a ride, Harry?” The man looked stunned; she thought she had asked very politely. “Please?”

“She wants to sit on your shoulders, Haz.” Her brother chuckled, a warm smile on his face, and without hesitating further she was hoisted up onto Harry’s shoulders. “See? Told ya she would like you. Don’t know what had ya so worried.”

Her brother reached up and ruffled her hair, then walked very close to Harry after that. They might even have been holding hands, if she could lean down far enough to see.

Butterflies of every colour floated around them, and if they stood very still, even came close enough to land on them. If one did, Harry would tell her what it was called, and where (what he called the species) was from.

“Do you like butterflies, Harry?” She could feel him nod, but his didn’t reply in any other way.

“Oh yeah flower, Harry loves butterflies. He’s weird about it though - got a whole bunch of them in cases on his wall.” She could see Harry go pink at her brother’s teasing.

“Can I see them sometime?” She leaned around so that she could see his face, careful not to fall. He smiled at her.

“Of course you can, Miss Daisy. Whenever you like.”

During their visit to the front shop on their way out, Eggsy bought her flowers and Harry bought her a pretty butterfly hair clip, which he expertly pinned into her hair so that it wouldn’t fall. When her mum saw it, she smiled at Harry and thanked him, and after he had left she told Eggsy that he had better not let that boy out of his sight, whatever that meant.