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We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Possession of Alba Díaz, a new gothic horror novel by Isabel Cañas, out from Berkley on August 19. 我们很高兴分享伊莎贝尔·卡纳斯的哥特式恐怖小说《阿尔巴·迪亚兹的占有》的节选，该书将于 8 月 19 日由 Berkley 出版。

In 1765, plague sweeps through Zacatecas. Alba flees with her wealthy merchant parents and fiancé, Carlos, to his family’s isolated mine for refuge. But safety proves fleeting as other dangers soon bare their teeth: Alba begins suffering from strange hallucinations, sleepwalking, and violent convulsions. She senses something cold lurking beneath her skin. Something angry. Something wrong.
1765 年，瘟疫席卷了扎卡塔斯。阿尔巴跟随她富有的商人父母和未婚夫卡洛斯逃到他的家族偏远的矿场避难。但安全证明是短暂的，因为其他危险很快露出了獠牙：阿尔巴开始出现奇怪的幻觉、梦游和剧烈的抽搐。她感觉到皮肤下有什么冰冷的东西潜伏着。有什么愤怒的东西。有什么不对劲的东西。

Elías, haunted by a troubled past, came to the New World to make his fortune and escape his family’s legacy of greed. Alba, as his cousin’s betrothed, is none of his business. Which is of course why he can’t help but notice the growing tension between them every time she enters the room… and why he notices her deteriorate when the demon’s thirst for blood gets stronger. 伊利亚斯，被一段困扰的过去所折磨，来到新世界是为了发家致富并逃避他家族贪婪的遗产。阿尔巴，作为他表妹的未婚夫，与他无关。当然，这就是为什么他忍不住注意到她每次进入房间时他们之间不断增长的紧张关系……以及为什么他注意到她随着恶魔对血液的渴望增强而恶化。

In the fight for her life, Alba and Elías become entangled with the occult, the Church, long-kept secrets, and each other… not knowing that one of these things will spell their doom. 在她的生命斗争中，阿尔巴和伊利亚斯与魔法、教会、长期保守的秘密以及彼此纠缠在一起……不知道其中一样东西将预示着他们的毁灭。

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I I’d wager you haven’t heard the legend of the Monterrubio mine. Most haven’t, especially if they’re not from around Mina San Gabriel. It’s a rumor, really, whispered from ear to ear, passed from palm to palm like so much silver. 我敢打赌你还没听说过蒙特鲁比奥矿的传说。大多数人都没有，尤其是那些不来自米纳·圣加布里埃尔地区的人。这其实只是一个谣言，在人们耳中悄悄流传，像许多银币一样从手掌传到手掌。

It was an ancient terror, I’ve heard people say. Or a pagan devil, rising from the dark maw of the mine to devour all in its path. Some say it was a haunting. If you ask me, that’s too straightforward. Can you imagine if this were nothing but a ghost story, full of cold drafts and shadows where they oughtn’t be, clammy palms and sweaty napes? That’s too clean a tale. Too simple. 人们说那是一种古老的恐怖。或者是一个异教恶魔，从矿井的黑暗深渊中升起，吞噬它所经过的一切。有些人说是鬼魂作祟。要我说，那太直白了。你能想象如果这只是一个鬼故事，充满了不该有的寒风和阴影，黏腻的手掌和湿透的后颈吗？那故事太干净了。太简单了。

And this one gets messy. 而这一则就麻烦了。

For they say that Alba Díaz de Bolaños barely survived. They say that when she stumbled down the cathedral steps, she was alive, yes—she was screaming, and all of Zacatecas heard it, their breasts chilled by how shredded and raw her voice was—but her wedding gown and all its silver were slick with blood. Gleaming with it, profane and red as cinnabar, wet as afterbirth. 据说阿尔巴·迪亚斯·德·博拉诺斯几乎没能幸存。据说当她跌跌撞撞地走下大教堂的台阶时，她确实还活着——她在大喊，整个萨卡泰卡斯都能听到，她的声音如此撕心裂肺、生涩，让所有人的胸膛都感到寒冷——但她的婚纱和所有的银饰都沾满了鲜血。闪闪发光，像朱砂一样亵渎而鲜红，像胎盘一样湿漉漉的。

Some say no one has seen her since. 有人说自那以后就没见过她了。

I have. 我见过。

And, unlike the storytellers who have mangled these events over the years, I know what happened. 而且，不像那些多年来曲解了这些事件的 storytellers，我知道发生了什么。

The truth is worse than the stories would have you believe. 真相比故事要令人难以置信。

I once heard it said that the words themselves are cursed. That the tale, once told, will evaporate like mercury. 我曾听过一种说法，说文字本身就被诅咒。故事一旦讲出，就会像水银一样蒸发。

I can’t know that for certain. Perhaps it will. 我无法确定那一点。也许会吧。

So lean in. Listen closely. I won’t be repeating myself. 那就靠近些。仔细听。我不会再说一遍的。

II 第二部 Elías 伊莱亚斯 Not long ago in a land far from here, Elías Monterrubio found a book of spells. Or perhaps it found him. 不久前，在遥远的地方，伊莱亚斯·蒙特尔鲁比奥发现了一本魔法书。或者，也许是书找了他。

In a shadowed corner of a book bazaar, before a stall stacked with manuscripts, he paused. The air around him swam with foreign tongues and the cries of Bosporus gulls and the harsh slant of noon and the smells of men who had traveled far under summer’s sun, but at once, all went still. Softness fell around him. Leatherbound and unassuming, as these texts always are, El Libro de San Cipriano seemed to reach for him more than he reached for it. 在一个阴暗角落的书市里，在他面前一个堆满手稿的摊位前，他停下了脚步。周围的空气漂浮着异国语言，博斯普鲁斯海鸥的鸣叫，正午刺眼的斜阳，以及那些在夏日阳光下远行的人们身上的气味，但瞬间，一切都静止了。柔和包围了他。皮面装订，不起眼，这些文本总是如此，圣西普里安诺之书似乎比他伸手去够它，更向他伸出了手。

Now, Elías’s studies of alchemy had taken him from the familiar spires of Sevilla and the chop of Gibraltar to this far side of the Mediterranean. He was a learned man; he had come across the name before. 现在，伊莱亚斯对炼金术的研究已经将他带离了塞维利亚熟悉的尖塔和直布罗陀的劈啪声，来到了地中海的另一边。他是个博学的人；他之前见过这个名字。

Before he foreswore his black craft and turned to God, San Cipriano was a sorcerer omnipotent, the greatest enchanter to ever light a candle and pray. His was not a showy craft, leveling mountains or levitating to impress princes for jewels and coin, but one of quiet incantations. Love was all he wanted, and so love was what he spun spells for. Love was what San Cipriano’s followers chanted invocations for, even after the sorcerer left the lies of the occult behind and fixed his attention on the promise of life everlasting. 在他背弃黑暗魔法、皈依上帝之前，桑西普里安诺是一位无所不能的巫师，是史上最伟大的施咒者，曾点燃蜡烛祈祷。他的魔法并非浮夸之术，不会移山填海或飞升显圣以取悦王子换取珠宝金钱，而是一种静默的咒语。他只渴望爱，因此他编织的魔法也全是为了爱。桑西普里安诺的追随者们仍在吟唱祷文，即使这位巫师早已摒弃了巫术的谎言，将注意力转向了永生的承诺。

An alchemist’s mind is weights and scales. The romance of transmutation is stripped bare to equations. Charcoal figures scribbled on blank paper. A lingering cough from chemical fumes. Love and its spells, as far as Elías was concerned, were as much a myth as San Cipriano. 炼金术士的思维如同天平与砝码。转化的浪漫被剥夺得只剩下方程式。炭笔在白纸上勾勒出模糊的轮廓。化学烟雾中传来一阵阵咳嗽声。在伊莱亚斯看来，爱与它的魔法，和圣西普里安一样，都只是神话。

But still he paused. Perhaps it was because the title on the first page was written in aljamía, Spanish words in Arabic ligatures, an ancient marriage of his twin mother tongues. That alone was rare. A curiosity. A souvenir from a time long dead. 但他仍然停顿了一下。或许是因为第一页上的标题是用阿尔哈米亚文写的，即阿拉伯连写体中的西班牙语，那是他双生母语的一种古老结合。仅此一点就足够罕见。一种奇闻。来自一个早已消逝时代的纪念品。

He bought it. Slipped it into his bag. 他买了它。把它塞进了他的包里。

And then he forgot about it. 然后他忘记了这件事。

For late that evening, as the call to prayer rippled midsummer’s humidity like the gentle strum of an oud, a letter arrived at his workshop addressed to Elías Monterrubio Zamora. 那天晚上很晚的时候，当宣礼声如同一把乌德琴的轻柔拨弦，在仲夏的湿气中荡漾开来，一封信件抵达了他的工坊，信封上写着收件人：埃尔ías·蒙托鲁比奥·萨莫拉。

Your father has returned, it read. Come. 信中写道：你的父亲回来了，来吧。

Many years later, Elías cursed himself for taking the bait. 许多年后，埃尔ías 诅咒自己上当了。

Of course he told himself that he meant to return to Spain anyway. That he had to, on behalf of his circle of scholars. Hadn’t they all agreed that it would be easier for Elías to obtain their mercury from Sevilla than for any of them? It was logic, cold as metal. Elías knew Almadén and the black markets of Sevilla intimately. The arrival of his grandfather’s letter merely hastened the planning. 他当然告诉自己，无论如何都会回到西班牙。那他必须这么做，代表他那一群学者。难道他们所有人都没同意，让伊莱亚斯从塞维利亚获取他们的水银比他们任何人都容易吗？这是逻辑，冰冷如金属。伊莱亚斯对阿尔马登和塞维利亚的黑市了如指掌。祖父的信件到来，不过是加速了计划。

And the idea of speaking to his father for the first time in over twenty years? He hated that it drew at him. He hated how much he wanted it. He hated how questions and accusations spiraled themselves deep into his uneasy sleep on the ship that departed the Sea of Marmara’s calm waters for the docks of Barcelona. 想到二十多年后第一次和父亲说话这件事？他恨透了它把他拉扯回来。他恨自己有多么想要它。他恨那些问题和指责如何在离开马尔马拉海平静水域前往巴塞罗那码头的船上，在他不安的睡眠中盘旋深入。

Why did you stop writing? Why did you never return? 你为什么停止写作？你为什么从未回来？

He was cagey and jumpy on the road; he carried his friends’ fortune sewn into his clothes. He barely slept. He spoke to no one. All he needed was to make it to Sevilla. Visit the mercury dealers from Almadén and pay his respects to his family. Face his father. 他在路上机警而紧张；他把朋友们的财运缝在衣服里。他几乎没睡。他没和任何人说话。他只需要到达塞维利亚。去拜访阿尔马登的汞商，向家人问好。面对他的父亲。

Then he could turn his back on the man like he deserved and return to sea. Before Elías knew it, he would be bound east, praying that no corsairs sank or captured him and the mercury en route to Constantinople. Then life would resume as before. He could bury his father in his mind and never sleep fitfully again. 然后他就能像应得的那样转过身去，回到大海。在埃尔ías 意识到之前，他就会被绑向东去，祈求没有海盗将他或前往君士坦丁堡的水银沉没或俘获。那时生活就会恢复如常。他可以在心里埋葬他的父亲，再也不会夜不能寐。

He knew from years of travel that no trip was ever simple. He did not expect simplicity. Especially not when the sun set over Sevilla’s winding streets and he entered the dark, dust-filled house of the Monterrubio patriarch, Juan Arcadio. 他多年的旅行经验告诉他，没有哪次旅行是简单的。他并不期待简单。尤其是在塞维利亚蜿蜒的街道上，当夕阳落下，他走进蒙特鲁维奥族长胡安·阿尔卡迪奥那间昏暗、布满灰尘的房子时，他更不期待简单。

Still, when he sat in the drawing room and asked after his father, he did not expect what his grandfather said. 然而，当他坐在客厅里问候父亲时，他并没有料到祖父会说些什么。

“Victoriano died in the Indies six months ago,” Abuelo Arcadio replied flatly. “维克多里亚诺六个月前死在了印度，”阿卡迪奥爷爷平静地回答。

The drop was dark and sudden. The slam of a door and the profound silence in its wake. 那落差如此之深，如此突然。一声关门声，以及随之而来的深沉寂静。

Elías opened his mouth to speak; nothing came out. 伊莱亚斯张开了嘴，却什么也没说出来。

He leaned forward to put his head in his hands; no, no his father couldn’t be dead, he had come all this way. He stood abruptly, strode three paces to the door, then whirled on his grandfather. He pointed a finger at the old man, a silent accusation before he could find speech. 他向前倾身，把手放在头颅上；不，不，他父亲不可能死了，他一路奔波至此。他猛地站起，踱了三步到门口，随即转身对着祖父。他指向老人，在老人找到言语之前，无声地指控着。

“You wrote—” “你写了——”

“Don’t look at me like that, boy.” Abuelo Arcadio waved a liver-spotted hand dismissively and accepted a glass of sherry from a servant. “There was no dragging you back from your Eastern debauchery without a lie and you know it.” “别那样看着我，小子。”阿卡迪奥·阿尔卡迪奥挥舞着布满老年斑的手，满不在乎地，然后从一个仆人手中接过一杯雪利酒。“没有谎言你是不会从东方的荒唐生活中被带回来的，你知道的。”

Elías dropped his hand. “Fuck you.” 伊莱亚斯放下了手。“去你的。”

His grandfather laughed, broad and unabashed as a sailor. Too throaty and rude for dark-draped drawing rooms. His shoulders shook; sherry swished in the crystal glass, winking cheekily in the candlelight. Abuelo Arcadio laughed with his whole body. That was the way Elías’s father laughed. 他的祖父大笑起来，笑声宽阔而不顾一切，像个水手一样。太粗鲁，太沙哑，不适合装饰华丽的客厅。他的肩膀颤抖着；雪利酒在水晶杯中摇曳，在烛光中俏皮地闪烁。阿卡迪奥·阿尔卡迪奥全身大笑。那正是伊莱亚斯的父亲大笑的方式。

Used to laugh. 曾经大笑。

The drop beneath him reopened, and with a sweep of vertigo, he was falling again. 他身下的坠落再次张开，一阵眩晕的挥舞后，他又在坠落了。

Every accusation, every question spun into brilliant, imaginary arguments as he rolled over on cold, rocky ground beneath the stars; all the weeks of wondering how twenty years had changed his father’s face… it was all for nothing. 所有的指控，所有的问题在他滚落在星光下的冰冷、多岩石的地上旋转成灿烂的、想象中的辩论；那些周内他都在猜想二十年如何改变了父亲的面容……这一切都毫无意义。

Six months. 六个月。

The man was buried and gone. Even if Elías sailed to the Indies tomorrow with nothing but a pickaxe, desperate to exhume the corpse, there would be nothing to find by the time he reached the grave. There was already nothing to find. 那男人被埋葬，消失了。就算伊莱亚斯明天驾船前往印度，只带着一把铁锹，绝望地想要挖出尸体，等他到达坟墓时，也找不到任何东西。那时已经什么都没有了。

“Now that the formalities are out of the way, we can actually talk. Sit.” Abuelo Arcadio gestured to the chair Elías had vacated. “既然礼节已经办完，我们就可以开始谈正事了。坐。”阿卡迪奥·阿布埃洛向伊莱亚斯空出的椅子示意。

He could have walked out the door. Taken the bags of mercury he had purchased on behalf of his friends. Returned to the sea. He had a plan. All he had to do was leave. 他本可以走出那扇门。带走他代朋友们购买的汞袋。回到大海。他有一个计划。他只要离开就好。

All he had ever had to do was leave. 他永远只需要离开。

But he hesitated. 但他犹豫了。

That was his inheritance, wasn’t it? A bone-deep lust for more, more, more. This was what Victoriano Monterrubio had left him in death: no answers, no apologies, only a moment of hesitation. A fatal ripple of curiosity about what more lay twinkling beneath the surface of this meeting. 那便是他的继承，不是吗？一种深入骨髓的渴望，更多，更多，更多。维克多亚诺·蒙特鲁维奥在死亡中留给他的，没有答案，没有道歉，只有片刻的犹豫。一种致命的好奇波纹，关于这次会面表面之下还隐藏着什么更多的东西。

Abuelo Arcadio would not call for him—lie to him—without good reason. And the only good reasons that existed in this family were reasons that could be molten, forged, and sold. 阿卡迪奥爷爷若不是有充分的理由，是不会叫他——骗他的。而在这个家里，存在的所谓充分理由，要么是熔化的，要么是锻造的，要么是可以卖钱的。

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “你想要我什么？”他问道。

“For you to sit,” Abuelo Arcadio said. “让你坐下，”阿卡迪奥爷爷说。

He did. Sherry was brought to his side; he refused it wordlessly. Watched his grandfather sip his drink. Waited. 他照做了。谢莉被带到他身边；他无声地拒绝了。看着爷爷啜饮他的饮料。等待着。

“Victoriano swore to Heraclio that if we bought that mine, all we had to do was drain the flooding,” Abuelo Arcadio said. “That there was good ore beneath the waterline. The owner defaulted on his loans and his heir was dead, so we could get it for cheap.” “维克塔里奥向赫拉克利奥发誓，如果我们买下那座矿山，我们只需要排干洪水，”阿卡迪奥爷爷说。“说水下线下面有优质的矿石。房主拖欠了贷款，他的继承人死了，所以我们可以廉价得到它。”

“That is why Tío Heraclio and Carlos left for the Indies.” Names attached to faces he had not seen in twenty years or so. Names he had not thought of in just as long. “这就是为什么赫拉克利奥叔叔和卡洛斯去了印度。”这些名字与他二十多年未曾谋面的面孔联系在一起。这些名字也同样长时间未曾想起。

Abuelo Arcadio tapped the rim of the now-empty glass; it was refilled. “They bought it, they drained it, and they began to dig. Your father was right, for once—the ore is good, but even that is not enough. Ah, Victoriano.” A delicate scowl crossed Abuelo Arcadio’s face. “He never made a business decision that did not mire this family in debt.” 阿卡迪奥爷爷敲了敲现在空了的杯子边缘；它又被斟满了。“他们买走了，榨干了，然后开始挖。你爸爸这次说对了——矿石很好，但即便如此也不够。啊，维克塔里奥。”阿卡迪奥爷爷脸上掠过一丝精致的皱眉。“他从未做出过任何不会让这个家陷入债务的商业决策。”

“To whom this time?” “这一次，给谁？”

“Criollo merchants. And the Crown.” Abuelo Arcadio’s voice lowered to a growl over the word. “Taxes! All they want is taxes. The tax on buying mercury for amalgamation is choking us. But Victoriano had a solution for this too.” “克里奥尔商人。还有王室。”阿卡迪奥爷爷的声音在“王室”这个词上低沉成低吼。“税！他们想要的就只有税。购买水银用于熔炼的税正在把我们掐死。但维克塔里奥也对此有解决办法。”

“Did he now,” Elías said. It came out flat. Perhaps he should have accepted the sherry earlier. Unease glimmered in his chest—it was a sense that the ground was shifting under him, like the deck of a ship when the waves grew steep and thick. “真的吗，”伊莱亚斯说。语气平淡。他本该早点接受那杯雪利酒的。不安在他胸中闪烁——那是一种感觉，仿佛地面正在从他脚下移动，就像当波浪变得陡峭而浓密时船甲板上的感觉。

Abuelo Arcadio’s grin was yellow, stained by years of tobacco. It brought to mind jackal. It was not at all kind. “He had whelped a little magician, hadn’t he?” 阿卡迪奥爷爷的笑容是黄色的，被多年的烟草染黄。这让人想起豺。它一点也不友善。“他养了个小魔法师，不是吗？”

A flush of heat shot through Elías’s cheeks. Alchemy was weights and calculations. Alchemy was science. But not to all. To his father’s family, he had never been anything more than a charlatan playing with smoke and useless measures. Nothing more than a waste of family money. 一阵热浪涌过伊莱亚斯的脸颊。炼金术是重量和计算。炼金术是科学。但并非对所有人都如此。对他父亲的家族来说，他永远只是一个玩弄烟雾和无用度量的骗子。永远只是家族金钱的浪费。

“‘Summon Elías,’ he said,” Abuelo Arcadio continued. “‘Elías knows mercury.’” He sat back in his chair, gesturing at Elías expansively. “That was the last thing he ever wrote to me. And look what it brought me: a prodigal grandson on my doorstep, laden with bags of mercury. Tax-free mercury.” “‘召集伊莱亚斯，’阿卡迪奥爷爷继续说道，“‘伊莱亚斯懂得水银。’”他向后靠在椅子上，向伊莱亚斯做了个 expansive 的手势。“那是我最后写给我的东西。看看它给我带来了什么：一个浪子孙子，拎着装满水银的袋子站在我门口。免税的水银。”

Smugness becomes few people. Somehow, it suited Abuelo Arcadio, settling over him like the soft, flattering light of sunset. 自命不凡的人并不多见。不知怎的，阿卡迪奥爷爷身上却有着几分，像是夕阳柔和、恭维的光芒笼罩着他。

“Do you know how much silver that mercury can refine?” he asked. Elías did not reply. He didn’t need to. Abuelo Arcadio was already dreaming aloud, the divine power of metal lifting him to his feet and carrying him across the room, where he paced as if he itched with possibility. “你知道那水银能提炼多少白银吗？”他问道。伊莱亚斯没有回答。他不需要回答。阿卡迪奥爷爷已经自言自语地开始做梦了，金属的神圣力量将他托起，让他站起身，穿过房间，来回踱步，仿佛浑身都充满了可能性的痒意。

“Enough silver to make the mine profitable.” It was prayerlike in its reverence. “To save this family from ruin. And then some.” “足够多的银矿，能让矿场盈利。”语气虔诚得如同祈祷。“拯救这个家庭免于毁灭。而且还有余。”

He turned to Elías. His final question was unspoken, but it hung in the air with the presence of a ghost. 他转向伊莱亚斯。他最后的疑问没有说出口，但像幽灵一样悬在空气中。

“No,” Elías said. “不，”伊莱亚斯说。

“Mulish as ever,” Abuelo Arcadio said, with a measure of what some might call grandfatherly affection. It felt a touch closer to condescension. “Heraclio predicted this. You take after your mother, after all.” “还是那么固执，”阿卡迪奥爷爷说，带着一些有些人可能会称之为祖父般慈爱的人情味。但这感觉更接近于轻蔑。“赫拉克利奥早就预言了。毕竟你像你妈妈。”

“She stays out of this.” He was on his feet, stung by the lick of a whip. “她不掺和这个。”他站了起来，被鞭子抽了一下，感到一阵刺痛。

Eagerness glinted in Abuelo Arcadio’s eyes. He had loved baiting Elías when he was a child, for Elías always snapped faster than any of his cousins. Still did, apparently. He did not know which he hated more: Abuelo Arcadio’s power over him, or how he let him have that power. 阿卡迪奥·阿布埃洛眼中闪烁着渴望。他小时候就喜欢捉弄埃利亚斯，因为埃利亚斯总是比任何表兄弟姐妹都更快地反击。显然，现在也是如此。他不知道自己更恨什么：阿卡迪奥·阿布埃洛对他的掌控，还是他放任这种掌控的态度。

“Victoriano died with an enormous amount of debt in his name. As his only son, it is now yours,” Abuelo Arcadio said. “Bring your mercury to Nueva España. Become azoguero in Victoriano’s place and refine enough silver to repay the debt. Any silver refined from the mercury that remains will be fifty percent yours.” “维克多里亚诺死的时候欠下了巨额债务。作为他唯一的儿子，现在这笔债务是你的，”阿卡迪奥·阿布埃洛说。“把你的水银带到新西班牙。接替维克多里亚诺成为阿索格罗，提炼足够的银来偿还债务。剩余的水银提炼出的银，你将获得百分之五十。”

“That mercury is not mine,” Elías said. “那水银不是我的，”伊莱亚斯说。

“It is in your bags,” Abuelo Arcadio said. Again, that jackal smile played across his face. “Is it not?” “它就在你的包里，”阿卡迪奥·阿尔卡迪奥说。他又露出了那副狐狸般的笑容。“难道不是吗？”

The trust on his friends’ faces flitted through his mind. How easily they had counted coins into his palms. The way they waved to him from the docks as the ship pulled away. Casually, then returning to their coffee as clouds of gulls rose around them, obscuring them from sight. As if Elías were merely crossing the city and not the Mediterranean. For they knew he would return. 他脑海中闪过朋友们脸上信任的神情。他们多么轻易地把硬币数到他的掌心。当船驶离码头时，他们向他挥手告别。然后又悠闲地回到咖啡桌旁，而海鸥群在周围盘旋，遮蔽了他们的身影。仿佛伊莱亚斯只是穿过城市，而不是穿越地中海。因为他们知道他会回来的。

Wouldn’t he? 难道不是吗？

Or was it not possible that he could have perished in a storm, sinking to the bottom of the sea, weighed down by all the coins sewn into his jacket? Was it not possible that he could be captured by corsairs and sold? Or, once he reached Spain, could he not be caught in the act of purchasing mercury on the black market and again condemned to Almadén? 或者，他不可能在风暴中丧生，沉入海底，被缝在他外套里的所有硬币压垮吗？他不可能被海盗抓住然后卖掉吗？或者，一旦他到达西班牙，他不可能在黑市上购买水银时被抓现行，再次被判处阿尔马登吗？

Months would pass. His friends would mourn him as dead. Perhaps even forgive him, one day. 几个月会过去。他的朋友们会把他当作死者哀悼。也许有一天，甚至会原谅他。

Greed was less a deadly sin than family creed, as inescapable as the name he bore or the way he recognized his father’s gestures in his own hands. He swore he was different from his cousins, his uncles, his grandfather. His greed was different. It buried him in tomes and equations and experiments, for it was a lust for knowledge that drove him to seek more. It was a noble greed. 贪婪不如家族信条那样是一种致命的罪恶，它如同他背负的名字或他在自己手中认出父亲手势的方式一样无法逃避。他发誓自己不同于他的表兄弟姐妹，他的叔伯，他的祖父。他的贪婪是不同的。它将他埋葬在卷帙浩繁的书籍、方程式和实验中，因为它是一种对知识的渴望，驱使他去寻求更多。这是一种高尚的贪婪。

But that much silver… 但那许多银…

He could sail to China, or Persia, and live as a scholar prince for the rest of his days. He could turn his back on the Monterrubios, for he would never need them. He could put every sin he had ever committed to his back and become someone new. Unburdened. Free. 他可以航行到中国，或者波斯，过上一生学者王子的生活。他可以背弃蒙特鲁比奥斯家族，因为他永远不需要他们。他可以把他所犯过的每一个罪孽都背在背上，成为一个全新的人。卸下负担。获得自由。

“Seventy-five percent,” he countered. “百分之七十五，”他反驳道。

“Seventy,” said Abuelo Arcadio, extending his right hand to shake. “百分之七十，”阿卡迪奥爷爷说着，伸出手准备握手。

Elías took it in his. Shook it once and firmly, before he could change his mind. “Done.” 伊莱亚斯握住了他的手。在他改变主意之前，他握了一下，坚定地摇了摇。“成交。”