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Simon looked. He saw ordinary people, doing ordinary things.
Aldric pointed down. “The cab driver at the corner, yelling at the woman crossing. The old woman in the grey coat. The priest. Don’t you feel it?”
Quiet filled the tree as Simon tried to sense what his father described. The city was just a city. Finally he had to admit, “All I see are a bunch of ticked-off New Yorkers. I thought that was supposed to be pretty normal here.”
His father frowned. “These are the signs of a dragon presence. Be alert to them. Now then, over there, on the eighteenth floor of that building, is the home of a woman named Alaythia Moore,” said Aldric, with a touch of sadness Simon didn’t quite understand. “She lives there alone and rarely has visitors. She works for a modern art gallery. She is an art curator and an artist in her own right, I understand, though I’ve never seen any of her work. She’s too shy and private to show off her own paintings.”
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