Ysabel by Guy Gavriel Kay

grandmother had told him some of her old stories.
    Ned walked thoughtfully up the last part of the hill and punched the gate code to get onto the property. He paced up and down the terrace for a bit, stretching. He thought about jumping in the pool, but it wasn’t that warm, and he went upstairs and showered instead, dropping his clothes in the hamper for the cleaning help. The villa had been rented with two women to work for them. Both were named Vera, which made for challenges. Greg had named them Veracook and Veraclean.
    Pulling on his jeans, Ned went down and into the kitchen. He got a Coke from the fridge. Veracook, clad in black, grey hair pulled tightly in a bun, was there. She had baked some kind of hard biscuits. He took one. From by the stove, she smiled approval.
    Greg was on his cellphone in front of the computer in the dining room, so the house line was free. Ned went back upstairs and into his father’s bedroom and dialed the mobile number Kate Wenger had given him.
    “Bonjour?”
    “Um, hi, I’m looking for Marie-Chantal.”
    “Screw you, Ned.” But she laughed. “Miss me already? How sweet.”
    He felt himself flush, was glad she couldn’t see it. “I just came in from a run. Um, I realized something.”
    “That you did miss me? I’m flattered.” She was sassy on the phone, he thought. He wondered how she was on IM or texting. Everyone got looser online.
    “No, listen. Um, it’s April thirtieth on Thursday. Then May Day.”
    Kate was silent. He was wondering if he’d have to explain, then heard her say, “Jeez, Ned. Beltaine? That’s a major deal. Ghosts and souls, like Hallowe’en. How do you know this? You a closet nerd?”
    “My mom’s family’s from Wales. My grandmother told me some of this stuff. We used to go on a picnic sometimes, on the first of May.”
    “Want to go on a picnic?”
    “If you bring Marie-Chantal.” He hesitated. “Kate, where were the Celts around here? Were they here?”
    “Yeah, they were. I can find out where.”
    “I can, too, I guess.”
    “No, you leave the heavy lifting to me, Grasshopper. You just keep running and hopping. See you tomorrow after school?”
    “See you.” He hung up, grinning in spite of himself. It was nice, he thought, to meet a girl in a situation where he didn’t have to explain her, or what was going down, to the other guys. Privacy, that was the thing. You didn’t get a lot of it back home.
    THEY HAD DINNER at the villa, French time: after eight o’clock. The clear understanding, Melanie explained seriously, was that they had to eat here every so often or Veracook would get insulted and depressed (“Veradepressed!” Greg said) and start burning their food and stuff like that.
    Before they ate, Ned’s father took a vodka and tonicout on the terrace while the others went into the pool. Melanie, tiny as she was, looked pretty good in a bathing suit, Ned decided. She made a big deal about the water being freezing cold (it was) but got herself in. Steve was a swimmer, had the long arms and legs. He was methodically doing laps, or trying to—the pool wasn’t really big enough.
    As Ned and his father sat watching them, Greg suddenly burst through the terrace doors, sprang down the wide stone steps, across the grass, and cannonballed into the water, wearing the baggiest, most worn-out bathing suit Ned had ever seen.
    Edward Marriner, laughing, offered an immediate pay bonus if Greg promised to use their next coffee break to buy a new swimsuit in town and spare them the sight of this one again. Melanie shouted a suggestion that Greg could skinny-dip if he wanted to save the money. Greg, splashing and whooping in the frigid water, threatened to take her up on it.
    “You wouldn’t dare,” she said.
    “And why not?”
    Melanie laughed. “Shrinkage in cold water. Male pride. End of story.”
    “You have,” Greg said after a moment, “a point.” Steve, who had stopped his laps, laughed aloud.
    Up on the terrace, Ned looked