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Sunbeams flickered through the leaves in uneven patches of gold, bathing parts of the grass in their warmth while the rest remained as cool as the morning dew.
Poor, stubborn Meredith had insisted on going outside, so desperately wanting to be in the gardens despite the fever taking its toll on her, despite her reddened cheeks and watery eyes, and despite the fact that she could barely keep herself upright for more than a few minutes at a time.
She refused to eat and had needed a great deal of convincing before reluctantly accepting a few spoonfuls of broth, causing her nannies to nearly tear their hair out in despair.
But to their luck - and to Meredith's - David adored his little lady, his darling sister. So he had taken over her care, and their argument about staying inside had lasted exactly three minutes and the threat of spilled tears before he simply picked her up and carried her through the pristine halls of their father's villa and out into the open, ignoring the many objections of the other personnel about how the little one needed to rest in bed.
Some dirt never harmed a child, even if said child happened to be the daughter of the wealthiest man on Earth. Fresh air was often known to be the best medicine, after all.
Now sweet Meredith lay cradled in his lap beneath the broad canopy of a large beech, curled against his torso with all the stubborn determination of an exhausted six-year-old. He had not seen the point of shoes, and her socks had been kicked off and discarded somewhere along the way. He’d pick them up later; they were far from being his priority.
Brushing a few damp strands of dark blonde hair away from her forehead, David's mouth curled slightly in dissatisfaction. She was still too warm. Not dangerously so, but enough for him to monitor her temperature at frequent intervals.
He thought about getting up and dipping her calves into the fountain, having the water draw some of the heat out of her tiny body - but a low, fussy sound came from the girl in his arms, prompting him to discard the thought and glance down at her instead.
Smoothing another bead of sweat away, he tipped his head in question. "What is it, Meri?"
Meredith's eyes barely fluttered open, though she managed to look at him. "Sing..."
The request was slightly slurred, her tongue heavy with illness, and David's gaze drifted across the gardens. There were rows upon rows of perfectly maintained trees spread across the grounds, accompanied by exotic bushes that demanded constant and professional care.
Yet around them grew clusters of simple daisies, swaying gently in the wind.
Simplicity was something rare within Weyland's realm, and yet it existed - just like these moments that he got to share with his sister.
David's hand remained against her forehead - subtly lowering his external temperature to provide a cooling touch upon her fevered brow as he began to hum the opening words.
"There is a flower within my heart - Daisy, Daisy - planted one day by a glancing dart, planted by Daisy Bell."
He remembered the day he had first been introduced to her. Of course he did. David did not forget - but he made sure that this moment was saved in a special part of his memory, so secure that revisiting it felt almost like reliving it.
She had been so small, even smaller than she was now.
Shoulder-length blonde hair had been bound into two ponytails, and two colourful hairclips adorned each side of her head, trying to keep her loose strands from falling into her face. A white summer dress patterned with blue flowers brushed against her knees, paired with simple beige sandals that peeked out beneath the hem.
She was so delicate that he could have mistaken her for a blue and white porcelain doll - had her face not been so full of tears.
Half-hidden behind the leg of the caretaker who had brought her to her father, Meredith had clung to the woman's trousers with both hands, her small shoulders trembling with every quiet sob.
Looking back on it now, David doubted she had understood the full extent of what had happened. At six years old, death was an abstract concept to most children.
What she understood was that her mother was gone and wouldn't return for her.
"Whether she loves me or loves me not, sometimes it's hard to tell. Yet I am longing to share the lot of beautiful Daisy Bell."
The late Mrs. Vickers had died in a car accident - instantly. There had been nothing to save, nothing anyone could have done. The tragedy had left behind a grieving child and very few relatives willing or able to take responsibility for her.
Not that Peter Weyland would have allowed it. His only biological child ending up in foster care or with distant relatives was unthinkable - Meredith was his daughter, his heir, his flesh and blood. His pride would have permitted nothing less.
How hesitant his little mistress had been to look at him and their father.
He had stood beside Peter in silence while the caretaker gently encouraged the little girl forward, only for Meredith to tighten her grip and hide even further behind the woman's leg. It had taken several minutes and a gentle smile on his face before curiosity finally overcame fear.
'Welcome home, Meredith. This is your brother, David.'
Eventually, she was placed in his care. There was a rotation of top-qualified nannies, tutors, and household staff, but she kept calling for him. This sweet little girl took the term brother more seriously than Peter Weyland did when he called him his son.
"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage - I can't afford a carriage. But you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two."
David remembered Alexandra Vickers well. A remarkable woman, truly.
The world had known her as a model - young, beautiful and endlessly photographed. Her face had appeared on magazine covers, billboards and advertisements across the globe, and it was easy to understand why. She possessed a sort of striking beauty that commanded attention: light blonde hair, dark blue eyes, high cheekbones and defined lips framed by a distinct, sharp cupid's bow.
Her appearance had been what first drew Peter Weyland to her. Her mind was what persuaded him to pursue.
Alexandra was intelligent, witty, and entirely unimpressed by the things that usually worked in Peter's favour. Wealth, status and influence opened almost every door for him, and most people were more than willing to throw themselves at his feet for a fraction of his attention. Long-term relationships had never interested him much, nor had they been necessary. Why commit to one person when the world already revolved around him?
But Alexandra proved unexpectedly resistant. And Peter, to David's endless fascination, took that as a challenge.
Hundreds of the finest English roses were delivered to her apartment. Then followed jewellery, designer accessories, and invitations to exclusive events. Every gift was selected to impress, and for months she remained stubbornly unmoved by all of it, forcing Peter to abandon his usual methods and to appear on her doorstep personally.
Only then did she finally give in.
Looking back, David suspected that was part of the reason Peter remained interested in her for as long as he did. Alexandra Vickers had been one of the very few people in the world who had ever told him no.
Yet none of those things were what David remembered most when he thought of her.
While many people viewed him as a tool or an unusually sophisticated piece of technology, Alexandra never seemed interested in drawing such distinctions. She spoke to him as naturally as she spoke to anyone else. She thanked him when he helped her, asked his opinion on trivial matters, and actually listened to his answers.
More than once, she had waved him away whenever he attempted to perform duties she considered unnecessary, insisting she was perfectly capable of managing on her own.
Small gestures, insignificant perhaps - but she treated him like a man.
David would never forget that.
"We will go tandem as man and wife - Daisy, Daisy - pedaling away down the road of life, I and my Daisy Bell."
Vickers and Weyland never married.
Peter Weyland had tried, of course - more than once. But each proposal had been answered with the same declination.
Because Alexandra Vickers had always understood something about him that he perhaps didn't even understand himself. That Peter did not love her, not in any real, enduring sense. He was infatuated, captivated, enamoured with the idea of her, not with her as a person. She was a trophy, his brilliant, shining trophy.
And perhaps that had been the highest compliment she could have received from him. There were very few things in the world capable of truly holding Peter Weyland's attention at all.
For a time, it had been enough - until she left one day, too saddened by that unavoidable truth.
"When the road's dark, we can both despise policemen and lamps as well. There are bright lights in the dazzling eyes of beautiful Daisy Bell."
The world had continued to spin as though nothing essential had changed. Meetings were held, decisions made, headlines printed and forgotten. At least, that was what it looked like once the media had exhausted itself on the spectacle of their separation.
Because what no one had known was that Alexandra Vickers had fallen pregnant with Peter Weyland's first and only heir.
And she had told no one. Not him, nor the press.
She had kept it secret from the world that had been so eager to dissect every detail of their relationship.
Her loss was a tragedy in every sense of the word. But - if things had unfolded differently, if she had lived - David often found himself pondering the consequence that would have followed.
Perhaps none of this would exist as it did now.
Because in the end, it was that very tragedy that had placed a child into his arms.
A small, warm weight nestled against him, a child he got to sway gently as sleep finally overtook her.
His little, beautiful, beloved Meredith.
And as David lowered his gaze to her sleeping face and listened to her even breath, he leaned down and pressed the lightest kiss upon her slowly cooling forehead.
This moment, too, will be a memory he’ll carefully save to hold on to forever.
"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I'm half crazy all for the love of you. It won't be a stylish marriage - I can't afford a carriage. But you'll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two."