Rough-hewn oak branches twist upward from a broad base, nails protruding like gnarled fingers to snag woolen cloaks and linen tunics heavy with ale stains and road dust. Beneath the lowest shelf, a false panel of dovetailed wood slides silently on oiled grooves, revealing a shallow void just wide enough for a slender dagger's hilt or a vial's cool glass curve. The rack creaks under no more than fifty pounds, its varnish cracked from tavern brawls and hurried hands.