Dream Thief by Stephen Lawhead

pears, deviled crabs, avocados stuffed with chicken and tuna salad, petits fours, cakes, and many other delicacies, some of which Spence did not readily recognize.
    Not that it made a difference whether he recognized any particular dish. Ari adroitly ushered them through the snarl of elbows and reaching hands and filled both plates while Spence tagged after her trying not to spill anything.
    “Oh, no,” sighed Ari as they arrived at a great empty bowl; the cut glass vessel appeared to have been recovered from a mud wallow. “Just as I feared. The mousse is gone. Too bad. But I think I know where there may be some more. Follow me.”
    They edged through the crowd and dodged diners who stood on the periphery holding their plates to their mouths. She led him away from the confusion of the gathering, through a dim passageway, and into a room which had been transformed into a makeshift kitchen; it looked more like the staging area for a major battle. Several employees of Gotham's food service worked over platters, valiantly attempting to reconstruct beauty from the spoils on the plates before them, replacing wilted lettuce and replenishing depleted items. They worked deftly and quickly, shouldered their trays, and faced once more into the fray.
    “We should have come here first,” murmured Ari. “It's quieter. Here's the mousse, or what's left of it.” She picked up a spoon and shook a healthy dollop onto his already overflowing plate.
    “It will take me a week to eat all this.”
    “Nonsense. I've seen you eat. Remember?”
    He looked around for a place to sit. There were no chairs in the room at all.
    “Shall we join the others?” asked Ari.
    “I would rather face lions.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “That was the right answer. I know a place that may not have been discovered. Come along.”
    They ducked out through a side door and across the hallway into a small vestibule. He gathered the room was a sort of private sitting room. Bookshelves lined the walls on three sides; on the fourth there was a large, abstract green painting above a low couch. A table in front of the couch bore the telltale traces of diners who had eaten and departed, leaving behind the litter of their repast.
    “Daddy calls this his reading room. He says it's cozier than his library or office. Most often he just comes in here to nap.”
    They sat down on the couch and fell to eating at once. Spence sampled a bite of each of the items on his plate in turn before devouring them one at a time.
    “It's very good,” he mumbled around a mouthful.
    “Only the best for our guests.”
    He regarded her with a look of genuine gratitude. “Thanks for inviting me. I don't usually—” He stopped. “I'm glad I came.”
    She looked down at her plate. “I'm glad you came, too. I guess I didn't think you would.”
    “To tell you the truth, I didn't either.”
    “What changed your mind?”
    “I don't know. Maybe I'm just a pushover for chocolate mousse.”
    “Then we'll have to serve it more often,” she said gaily. “But you're not eating yours.”
    He glanced down at his plate. It had become a muddied palette of confused colors and textures. He put it down on the table in front of him. “I don't like mousse,” he admitted.
    She laughed then, and to Spence it seemed as if the room suddenly brightened. “Silly, then why did you let me give it to you?”
    “I don't know, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
    Ari blushed slightly and lowered her head. “Well, I am.” She seemed to become flustered then and said no more.
    Silence reclaimed the room and laid a gulf between them. It grew until neither one wanted to cross it. The atmosphere became sticky.
    “Ari, I'm not too good at this sort of thing.” Spence was surprised to hear his own voice bleating uncertainly into the vacuum.
    “You don't have to say anything,” said Ari. She raised her blue eyes to his. “I understand.”
    “It's just that I…” Words failed him.
    “Please, it