“You'll like it here,” said Debra. “Everything is a mystery.”

Before I could digest the mystique of the mansion in front of me, or the height of its white columns, a gloomy butler swung open the door: “I heard your voices,” he barked.

I gasped and swallowed my breath. Debra tried to mask her amusement and smiled at me, reassuringly: “You're just not used to rich people,” she said, pushing me forward.

The butler, and the scowl on his face, led us down a long hallway where large statues of famous poets lined the walls: “Are they watching us?” I joked.

Debra ignored my nervous sarcasm, thanked the butler cheerfully, and signaled me to follow her to the den. “My father's friends meet here every month,” she whispered. “And they play a very strange game.”