You can't prowl around backstage and watch the performance at the same time, but you keep looking over your shoulder. At one point, you're certain you see someone moving around on the other side of the stage, but whoever it is sticks to the shadows. You can't be certain you aren't just seeing one of the stagehands preparing the set for the next scene.
The volcano erupts with a satisfying thunder effect and a shower of fake masonry and sparks onstage. The king is urged to flee, and reluctantly authorizes his sea captains to launch boats, although the streets to the harbor are crowded with panicked citizens. The lovers, the family, and the servants encourage one another that they can still escape. The words ring hollow in the scene of increasing devastation, none of them yet willing to accept their likely fate.
Your improvised scene to cover the second-act slump arrives. Or it should. You hear a tremendous mechanical groaning from backstage, which prompts delighted shrieks from the audience as they take it for another earthquake. What you should see is the tidal wave looming into view. Instead, it remains obstinately offstage.
Nichol is muttering something under his breath about the curse. Or perhaps muttering that you're a curse.