"I feel like we're ghosts," I mutter during our fourth class. "Or wearing some kind of invisibility cloak."
"More like we're the weird transfer students no one wants to acknowledge." Penelope flips through her textbook, not bothering to lower her voice. The professor doesn't react. "Though I'd kill for an invisibility cloak right now. These chairs are murder on my ass."
Really? I thought they were pretty comfortable.
A girl nearby gasps at Penelope's language. I bite back a laugh.
"Think it's deliberate?" I ask. "The professors ignoring us?"
"Has to be. Too consistent to be coincidence."
She's right. Four different professors, four identical responses. Or lack thereof. The students might stare and whisper, but the faculty treat us like we don't exist.
The Conclave's influence, maybe? Or something else?
