“Great,” said Zara, the blush from her champagne showing in her cheeks. Claudine gave the piano player a nod and he began playing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Claudine had chosen each song personally, looking to tap into the very special holiday spirit. Involuntarily Zara began to hum along. This was almost too easy. Everyone took seats.

Of course Jules conveniently saved a place next to her for Henry. Fine. Claudine was about to take the seat on the bench next to Zara, when Steve jumped on it. He was becoming more impossible by the minute.

“Darling, we’re starting,” she called across the room to Henry. He stood and came dutifully by her side.

“As tradition dictates,” Claudine explained, “we’ll begin by reading the poem. Some people have taken to calling this game Yankee Swap. That would indicate it has origins in America. However, the pastime can be traced all the way back to this translated Danish poem from 1857 where it was referred to as a White Elephant. It pre-dates even Aspen.”

This was a complete lie. Claudine had written the poem herself. But as Steve had taught her, people wanted to believe, and the details were what mattered.

She took the old, yellowed envelope from the mantel, opened the flap with great care, slid out the card, and read:

Say now, young friend, it’s holiday time!

With snow and gifts and cheese and wine.

The night you wait for with all your heart

When at last the White Elephant game will start.

What awaits you wrapped tightly in ribbons and bows?

Mystery, excitement, and likely some woes.

The game is designed to expose your true nature

It is not for those afraid of a little danger.

Go forth, be bold, take the gift that speaks to you

Even steal from your neighbor if you want to.

Be nasty, not nice, take what you like best

Now is the time to put your treachery to the test.

Begin.

The ritual over, Henry returned to his seat and from the mantel Claudine took the Tiffany rock-cut bowl containing the numbers Jules had so delicately written. Of course she’d removed her own to secure her spot, and the one for Zara was expertly palmed in one hand. She began pacing in front of the fire.

“There are fifteen of us tonight,” she said.

“Sixteen,” corrected Steve.

“Every piece of paper in here,” she ignored him, holding up the bowl like an offering, “holds a key to the game. Your key. Each has a number. The choosing will be random. Stay where you are; I’ll come to you. Remember, this is the only time in your life that you don’t want to be number one. It leaves you open for the first steal.”

“How many times can you steal?” asked Zara.

“Once per round.”

“Is that right?” asked Rashida. “I feel like we debate this every year.”