Dad was shaky on his feet, so I pulled his arm round my shoulder for support, and we made our slow progress up the steps. Oak followed us, not turning his back to the room, torch sweeping from one wall to another.
It took a while, Dad was obviously more hurt than he'd let on, but eventually we made it to the top. Mum offered more support and we practically carried Dad into the living room.
Oak slammed the cellar door as he came through. He followed us into the room, pausing as he entered.
“We may have another problem,” he said.
When we looked to him, he pointed at a pile of mirrors and tin foil.
