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There was one small lar—a jolly godling whose responsibility was the welfare of the family—which, being made of bronze, had escaped the destruction.

A minor godling spotted us from a balcony and ducked inside, closing his shutters.

In the house the godling grudgingly accepted cheese and bread and cold meat and pie and coffee and a piece of chocolate cake.

Last I saw her, she’d been dancing with some minor godling.

“He’s been impossible ever since he discovered Italian suits! Problems everywhere, and I’ve got to handle all of them personally. The commute time alone from the palace to the gates is enough to drive me insane! And the dead just keep arriving. No, godling. I need no help getting subjects! I did not ask for this war.”